


Rose Tinted Photographs

by Morganas_Shadow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Pairings, One Shot Collection, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morganas_Shadow/pseuds/Morganas_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent."Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?" Little snapshots into the daily lives of our favourite Hetalia characters. Pairings included are FrUK, USUK, and FACE family, as well as LitPol, Gerita, Pruada, and others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and France dancing around one another while staring at one of the Parisian fountains.

Arthur watched the sunlight filter through the spray sent up by the fountain's jets. The rainbows flickered in and out of existence; flashes of colour against the hot Parisian sunshine and the dark marble backing. Personally, this was the only spot in Paris worth visiting; not that that said much, given his opinion of Paris. Still, his boss demanded his presence in this infernal country, if only for a few days, just until this treaty settled. He supposed he could appreciate certain things about the city: the Romanesque arches of the Napoleon era and the lack of rain, but the endless tourists, overrated architecture, and the worst people he has ever met. Shaking off thoughts of arrogant Frenchmen, he turns his attention back to the fountain when he hears a voice from behind him. Further evidence that Francis is the devil: think of him and he will appear.

"It is rare to see you this side of the channel, my friend. Boss's orders?"

"As if I would set foot here otherwise," Arthur sneers, but his heart isn't really in it because he has been distracted by a momentary rainbow.

To his surprise, France does not mock him.

"You like to come and look for rainbows too?" he asks, and Arthur nods, only once. Perhaps if he doesn't acknowledge the man's presence he'll go away. This tactic is not successful.

"Funny how they seem to come and go so quickly. Just a momentary flash of beauty-and then gone so quickly, with nothing but the mist of water and summer sunshine to tell you that they were there in the first place."

The implication hangs between them. Neither will say it, but the unspoken words carry a certain amount of weight. Arthur doesn't bite, though.

Francis has never been a man to take a hint quickly, especially when the topic is his unwanted presence, and instead leans against the fountain's dragon statues, tossing a coin in as he does so.

"For luck," he says casually, and sends a wink towards Arthur that for reasons unbeknownst to the man, amuses him.

"Lecherous-old-man!" he says, but he's joking, and Francis can tell.

"Ah, screw you, Arthur," Francis says in return, and Arthur can tell he doesn't really mean it either.

That weird sensation hangs in the air again, the sensation where they're not quite sure what they are to one another. They know something is there; after all, Arthur can't count the number of hours he's spent with Francis over the years even if he used his fingers and his toes ten times over. He remembers a pre-teen boy taunting him and cutting his hair. He remembered having to fight a war with  _Prussia_  as an  _ally_  just to try and piss this man off. He remembers fistfights on cliffsides and constant bickering at world meetings, for try as they might it seems that they can never agree on public nudity laws. He remembers trying to  _strangle_  this man trying to wrest America and Canada away from his terrible parenting skills. He remembers centuries of war, bloody fields and bloated corpses in heaps. How he could even endure standing in the same plaza as Francis, hell, the same country, was a mystery.

But he remembered Francis holding him when he was younger and had just been beaten by Scotland at sword fighting again. He remembered Francis leaving him a pot of bouillabaisse when he was sick and couldn't cook for himself. He remembered Francis giving Matthew Kuma-what's-it's-name before saying a final goodbye; and he remembered Francis clasping his hand and telling Arthur he was a better parent than he could ever be. And he remembered the days of the World Wars, the dark days, where all they could do was hold each other as they lay on the sofa at his house or the divan at Francis's and cry, shoulders shaking as they clutched one another, feeling the pain of all their dead citizens and the broken buildings and the destroyed earth of their lands, holding on to one another so tight sometimes they could hardly breathe, praying for Alfred to come soon. Yes, he remembers those days too.

Francis must have seen those ghosts in his eyes, but for once, that infuriating, senseless, tactless man doesn't open his mouth and say something so fucking stupid it makes Arthur turn that unhealthy shade of puce and punch him in the face-he just smiles.

Arthur knows he should do something-talk about the treaty, talk about Paris, insult him, something, you've been staring at his face for the past three minutes you bloody fool-but he doesn't do any of that. He just looks at Francis and Francis looks at him for a while. And then they both sit down on the lip of the stone fountain and watch the people go by. They watch people on motorcycles nearly getting killed, and they watch people walking with baskets under their arms, going to and from the markets shouting at one another, they watch people watering potted flowers on balconies high above the city. And they watch each other. Arthur watches Francis like he's never seen him before, so happy and content. Watching his people, watching the rainbows, watching Arthur in return. They sit there for a very long time; it feels like several hours but Arthur can't be sure. It is Francis who stands up first, declaring that it is high time for lunch. He extends his hand to Arthur, as if to ask, "Are you coming with me?" Arthur takes the hand. Before he leaves, though, he tosses a coin into the rainbow-filled fountian.

"For luck," he says.

 


	2. Early Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and England on America's birthday.

Arthur wakes up miserable. He hates the Fourth of July. He doesn't give a rat's arse if it's Al's birthday or not, he's not celebrating. Arthur hits snooze and goes back to bed.

Arthur wakes up for the second time that day. He knows that he's being horribly unproductive, as well as horribly selfish, but he can't bring himself to pick up his heavy head and make himself do something worthwhile with his day. Arthur hits snooze and goes back to bed.

When the alarm clock goes off for the third time, Arthur tells himself that he's being ridiculous and drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. The pounding water of the shower is hot and soothing, easing his sore muscles. He dresses as comfortably as possible; jeans and a soft blue sweater that he's pretty sure is Al's because it smells of smoke and burger grease and musky cologne-on second thought, he won't wear that sweater. He pushes it back into the closet and chooses a Beatles t-shirt he hasn't worn in forever.

He shuffles into the kitchen and is greeted by an unwelcome surprise; Al is sitting at his kitchen table, looking perfectly nonchalant. He tries to head off the conversation before it even starts.

"Look, Al, we've talked about this. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to your-"

"I'm not having a party."

"-really sorry, present's in the-sorry, what did you say?"

"I'm not having a party."

England looks at him, flabbergasted.

"Why the hell not?"

Al shrugs, like he doesn't really have a good answer for that.

"Can't be good for the economy to do that every year. Been trying to save up so I can finally pay back China."

But all England sees right through him, and all he hears is  _I know it hurts you. I don't want to hurt you. I'd rather have you than a birthday party._

"Here," Al says, and pushes a cup towards him. England sips, and very nearly grimaces. The tea has been steeped for far too long, and Al has tried to rectify this by adding several unnecessary lumps of sugar. But it's Earl Grey, his favourite, and he knows Al picked it for him, so he drinks it and smiles. And Al's face is shining so earnestly that he can't help but smile in return.

"It's good," he says, lying through his teeth, and Al looks so relieved he nearly laughs. Al spends the rest of the day at his house, and they watch Doctor Who together and play checkers just like they used to. Al even bought him the good dark rum for later. America's pretending like it's no big deal, like it's not even his birthday, but by the time seven o'clock rolls around, England tells him to go.

"Go have a real birthday party. Go out with Canada, or Lithuania or someone. As long as it's not France," he says half jokingly.

Al still looks uncertain, and Arthur sighs.

"Go have fun. I'll be here when you get back, cleaning up your vomit, same as always," he says drily.

This gets a laugh out of the younger nation who heads to the door without any further prompting.

Al is almost to his motorcycle before Arthur shouts out,

"Hey! Al!" and America looks up and England almost chokes on the words like the coward he is but he forces himself to say them anyway.

"Maybe next year I can be there too." And the smile that America gives him looks like it could split his face in half.

 


	3. Wearing Tortellini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy and Germany decide that in order to be a proper couple, they have to have a family dinner. Unfortunately, with Romano and Prussia in the same room, things don't exactly go as planned.

The scraping of silverware against the china is enormously awkward. Germany wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to think that a family dinner was a good idea. They could barely agree on the most basic of policies at world meetings, let alone make civil conversation over the dinner table. But it meant the world to Feliciano, and so he had reluctantly agreed to invite both brothers over for dinner.

Lovino sawed angrily at the tortellini on his plate. It definitely didn't need to be cut, as the little pasta shapes were small enough to eat in one bite, but it was a good way of expressing his emotions towards this dinner. Ludwig was glaring at him like at any moment he might suddenly jump Prussia. The brothers don't get along at the best of times, but God help you (not that they would ever ask for that, heretic Protestants) if you ever threatened the other. The only thing he could be grateful for, he supposed, is the fact that at least North did the cooking. As if he would ever eat Germany's runny potatoes. Prussia then decided that this was the appropriate time to unleash a rather large belch, then grinned.

"Dude, that was  _awesome."_ Lovino groaned and would have slammed his face down into his mutilated pasta had it not meant exposing the vulnerable back of his neck to the potato bastard. The fact that Ludwig looked as though his brother's appalling behaviour was causing him physical pain was comforting, though. Feliciano, dumb as he was, didn't seem to have picked up on the tension in the air, and disappeared into the kitchen to get another bottle of wine.

Ludwig nearly had a stroke when Feliciano got up from the table. He sent pleading eyes his lover's way- _don't get up from the table, the only reason that this dinner hasn't been a complete disaster and the house isn't on fire is because no one wants to upset you_ -but his poor clueless boyfriend waltzed out the door anyway. He absentmindedly fingered his Iron Cross, not entirely sure he wouldn't be the catalyst of another world war-and if he wasn't, his brother would be and he'd have to take the blame. He'd only just dug his reputation out of the mud, too.

It was Prussia that stuck his foot in it, of course. The dinner, although far from the most pleasant evening he'd had in his life, had at least been peaceful. Lovino remembered when Spain had invited France, England, and both of their children over for dinner; he wouldn't set foot in the dining room for weeks. Expecting France, England, and Spain to agree on anything was asking for nothing short of a miracle, England had turned up with a basket of homemade scones as a welcome gift, and Alfred had nearly caused a small riot by coating all of their delicious cooking in condiments. But at least Canada had been pleasant, and France and Spain were Catholic, and as a general rule England tried to keep the peace, loathe as he was to admit it. Prussia...Prussia was something else.

Gilbert had, as soon as Feliciano had left the room, opened his mouth and asked,

"So, Feli bottoms, right?"

Lovino had been outraged. Not only had the comment been unpleasant by itself, Gilbert had been chewing on a mouthful of mushroom crostini while he did so, and the partially-digested food and spewed across the table and hit Lovino in the chest. Had it been anyone else, they might have been able to just accept the fact that Prussia was annoying and horrendously disgusting and moved on. Not so with Lovino. As Prussia was too far away to efficiently beat over the head, Lovino simply grabbed the nearest sharp object, a knife, and hurled it across the table at his adversary. Had it not been for his German military training, Prussia might have been impaled then and there. As it were, he ducked just in time, the knife embedding itself in the wall behind him. Germany didn't even have time to intervene-nor was he sure he would be capable. He had years of practice negotiating difficulties between France, England, the US and others, true; but the countries involved there really did care for each other, underneath all their supposed dislike. Prussia and Romano...he wasn't sure he could have stopped it _had_ he been fast enough.

Prussia, clearly upset by the still quivering knife, had returned the favor by picking up the nearest object, the plate of crab tortellini,and hurled it at Lovino in turn. Lovino hadn't really been expecting it-few people ever fought with him, except Spain, and  _he_ didn't really mean it-and thus found himself wearing pasta. It was everywhere. It was on his face, in his hair, and all over his beautiful (and very expensive) suit.

There was only one sensible thing to do, of course. He flew out of his chair, hurdling right over the table and knocking over their glasses of wine in the process, and tackled Gilbert. Good to know that his mafia reflexes are still in shape. The two rolled around on the floor in some kind of chaotic Tarantella, oblivious to the crashes of things falling to the floor.

"Potato bastard!"

"Catholic pedophile!"

"Protestant heathen!"

"Man whore!"

Germany had eventually gotten his muscles into working order after the initial shock and was currently trying to heave the two apart, failing miserably as the fighting escalated yet again after Prussia had yanked rather sharply on Romano's hair curl. The fighting was interrupted, however, by a whimper at the door.

"Fratello?" came Feliciano's very small voice.

Lovino went limp in Ludwig's arms, and Gilbert followed suit. Germany, realising that the two men wouldn't fight if Feliciano was upset, dropped both of them and ran to his boyfriend's arms. Feliciano was having none of it.

"One dinner. Lovino, I ask you for one dinner, and this is how you treat our guests? Not that I don't suspect that he"-here he gestured vaguely in Prussia's direction-"had something to do with it. But like it or not, we're family now. And tonight, you've ruined the food, you've ruined your suit, and you've ruined the evening." And after that had been said and done, Lovino watched his foolish, childish, hopeless little brother stalk out the front door with the determination of a general going to battle.

"He did have to pick today to grow a backbone, didn't he," Lovino muttered. But he lacked his usual venom, his heart clearly not in the insult. Ludwig looked like he was going to go charging after Feliciano, but Lovino waved the possibility away.

"He'll come back on his own. I know he doesn't seem like it, but he can take care of himself. For short periods of time, anyway," he reassured the nervous German. At this, even Ludwig cracked a grin. Prussia looked totally unapologetic, but with a few prods from his brother, they did manage to get the dining room somewhat clean and at least in a resemblance of order. Much of the food could be salvaged-although he certainly wasn't letting either of the Germans near the kitchen-and he did permit them to go choose a new wine from the cellar.

It took over an hour for the house to even come close to clean, and Feliciano took another half hour in coming home, seemingly back to his docile self, judging by the way he half-tackled Germany as soon as he walked in the door. But his eyes looked at Lovino with a newfound suspicion that he had never seen in his brother, not even in the darkest days of war.

Lovino couldn't quite bring himself to apologise, at least not to Prussia; he was a proud nation, for better or for worse. But at the end of the evening, just before he and Prussia left the couple's house, he extended his hand to Ludwig. Germany looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then shook hands with him. Both countries even managed a little half smile. And Feliciano smiled back at the two people who meant more to him than anything else in the world.

 


	4. Sugar and Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FACE family-Alfred decides that he absolutely has to have that new video game. Arthur and Francis disagree. Matthew gets roped into Alfred's hijinks (including a very frilly pink dress) as he desperately tries to wheedle money out of near passerby.

There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent. Today, it looked like he was going to have to utter one of them, whether he liked it or not.

"Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level in front of all these people. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?"

* * *

It was all Alfred's fault, Matthew reasoned. After all, it was entirely Alfred's fault that that Tuesday, they had gotten separated from their parents. And it was because Alfred wandered over to the toy store, brother in tow, that Alfred had spied the new must-have video game. It had aliens, it had guns, it had rocket ships, three of Al's personal obsessions. And of course, it was expensive. It wasn't that they weren't well off, or that their parents (especially Papa) didn't enjoy spoiling them. It was more along the lines of Al wanting something and wanting it  _now._ The problem with this, of course, was that two six year old boys hardly had sixty five dollars to buy the video game, so they had settled for playing with the demo consoles. Nearly fifteen minutes had passed before their parents had found them, Father exclaiming "I told you they'd be in the toy store!" and Papa doing a bad imitation of Father's accent. They'd both gotten huge lectures about not wandering off and no dessert for the night, which meant dealing with whiny, cranky Al. If Matt had known how much worse his week was going to get, he would not have complained so much the next morning.

It was definitely Alfred's fault. And he certainly should have suspected something when Alfred said he was sick the next morning. Of course, both their parents began to fuss over Al, letting him pick the morning cartoons (even though it was  _his_ week to pick!) and letting him eat a milkshake for breakfast (for his sore throat, my foot) and generally pampering their poor little angel. Honestly, how they hadn't figured out the little act yet was beyond him, but he always thought that Papa and Father were just kind of making up this whole "parenting" thing as they went along.

It was not at all surprising when Alfred immediately began launching into plans of utter pandemonium as soon as their parents left for work. (He was mysteriously feeling better.) He knew his brother usually had the best of intentions, but did he have to be so...chaotic about it?

"Here's the plan!" his brother cheered. "I'm the hero, so you'll be the damsel in distress!"

Matthew squawked indignantly. "I'm not the girl! You can be the girl! Why do we even need a girl in the first place?"

Alfred rolled his eyes as if that should be perfectly obvious. "Firstly, because you have the longer hair. Secondly, because in all the books, people don't care about orphan boys, but they do care about orphan girls. See?" Here he held up Father's rather battered copy of Oliver Twist.

"Mon Dieu, Alfred, that's not real! It's made up!"

"Well, Father says stories are history or something like that. And Father is always right, so there!"

"But we  _aren't_  orphans!"

"Sure we are!" Alfred countered. "Papa and Father had to get us from somewhere, because only girls can have babies. We're adopted orphans, like Daddy Warbucks and Annie."

Matthew could never go against what Father said, because Father and Papa were always right. And he never could say no to Al's schemes anyway. Especially since they weren't actually lying. Well, not technically. Somehow he'd never thought of himself as an orphan, because Papa and Father had been there for as long as he could remember. But he supposed Alfred was right.

He did, however, put his foot down on his brother's costume choices. They might be orphans, but even he knew that people didn't wear clothes like that anymore. Plus, they all came out of Father's costume closet and were far too big for them. He managed to talk Al into wearing normal pants and a loose fitting shirt, but he couldn't persuade him out of the Victorian looking hat and bare feet. Alfred even rubbed Papa's mascara all over his face to make it look dirty (this was really going  _too_  far, but no one could ever stop Al once he put his mind to something.) And then he forced Matthew into this hideous frilly pink monstrosity of a dress. Apparently Father had tried to make their aunt wear it when they were growing up, and she had never forgiven him for it. Although they were at least on speaking terms now, it always made family gatherings awkward. She and Al were two of a kind, really.

He really, really, really didn't want to wear that dress. However, no matter how much he didn't want to wear it, it didn't mean he had as much upper body strength as his brother. Which is why he found himself, twenty minutes and three scuffles later, dressed in the hideous pink creation with his hair combed out and wearing some of Papa's makeup. He really did look like a girl, which sucked. How come Alfred got the manly looks? He was definitely cutting his hair short after this.

Things had already gone too far in his opinion, but in Alfred's mind this was just the start of the plan. Standing on 17th street and begging people for money definitely wasn't on his top ten list of things to do today. The first few people they asked had given them some odd looks, probably for their choice in clothing (he elbowed Al) but threw them a few dollars or some spare change anyway. Al, however, wasn't happy.

"We'll never make enough to buy the video game!" he exclaimed in distress upon looking at what little they'd been able to collect in their basket.

"Maybe we should try someone who looks rich?" Matthew suggested.

"Awesome! Thanks, Mattie, you're the best!"

And Al had gone right up to this enormous looking business man, tailored suit and all, and very tremulously offered their basket to him.

"Please could we have some money, sir?" Matt thought he sounded a little ridiculous-who in the world would give two unattended kids real money?-but the man loved it.

"Kid, that was great stuff. Let me guess, Oliver?" Alfred shook his head and Matthew clung to the back of Alfred's jacket. He wanted to go and he wanted to go now; this was quickly spiraling out of control. The man looked surprised but undeterred by Alfred's answer.

'No, Newsies?" he tried again.

"No, we really need this money!" Alfred insisted. Matthew had to resist the urge to strangle his brother, or at the very least not punch him in the face.

The man looked rather concerned at this statement and crouched down on the sidewalk.

"Are you kids in real trouble?" he asked. Matthew was violently shaking his head and tugging on Al's sleeve- _remember what Papa said, don't talk to strangers_ -but Alfred wasn't listening, per usual. Alfred nodded.

"You kids stay right here. I'm a producer on Broadway-Jeffery Seller, have you heard of me?-and I'm going to get my people on the line. We'll get this whole mess sorted out."

With those words, the man walked purposefully to the end of the block and began to talk very loudly and persistently into his cellphone. As soon as he was out of earshot, Matt rounded on Alfred.

" _What have you done?"_  And Al just laughed that infuriating laugh of his.

"Dude, it'll all work out in the end. That guy will probs buy us all the video games we want."

"-yeah, seventeenth near Broadway, said they needed money-"

"Alfred! Focus! Reality!  _We're not really orphans!_ We have a family! And when that family finds out about this,  _we will be dead!_ "

"Yadda, yadda, yadda. You say "bad idea," I hear "opportunity." Lighten up!"

"-think we could get some cameras out here? You won't believe what they're wearing, must have stole it from a costume shop-"

" _Opportunity_  to get us  _killed,_ maybe!"

"-what? No, I don't want them  _arrested-"_

"Matt, chill. Just relax and enjoy the free ride to fame."

And with that the man hung up his cellphone and returned to them, which made Matthew go quiet for the time being.

"Okay, kids, here's the plan. I've called my people, and they'll have cameras here in a few minutes, get you guys on the news. Maybe someone knows something about you kids. In the meantime, do you need anything to eat? Are you cold?"

Matthew shook his head violently and managed to squeak out a "No!" in the highest falsetto he could manage without his voice cracking. But Alfred never knew when to keep his mouth shut, did he?

"Yeah, I could really go for like a HUGE cheeseburger right now. Like one this big!" He helpfully stretched his arms out the widest they would go as an illustration. The man tried very hard not to laugh.

"Not sure we can get one that big, kid, but we can try. Ah, look, the cameras are here!"

Immediately Matthew found himself surrounded by more people than he had ever seen in his life. There were wires being looped around him, a blonde lady in a headset, spotlights that hit him right in the face and made it near impossible to see-it was like walking into a waking nightmare. Someone was yelling about a sound check, another was fitting him and Alfred with microphones, squeezing their shoulders in reassurance. Now he really didn't have to pretend to be afraid; between the bright lights and the cameras and the people watching him and all the trouble they were going to be in when they finally got home, he was scared enough. Al, on the other hand, was sucking up the fame like the way he drank Coke-frighteningly fast and with altogether too much talking.

"I love New York City! Because the people here are amazing and sometimes you get free pizza and there's this huge toy store that I  _love_  going to-" Matthew tuned him out again. The producers were just eating up Al's enthusiastic gushing-and then one of them turned to him and said

"What about you? You Al's sister, right? You have to be, you two look so alike! Do you have anything to say?"

And Matthew's mind went blank. All he could think of was hiding, so he shifted farther behind Alfred's back and clung rather pitifully to his neck. He thought he heard one of them say 'Awwww.'

"Sorry, Mat-Matilda's kind of shy," Alfred quickly covered. "But I'm going to protect her because that's what heroes do!" Here there was a loud burst of applause from the camera crew, and the producer shouted "The kid's a natural!  _Someone_  get me my talent agency,  _please_ , before I fire one of you. We found ourselves a gold mine!"

* * *

_"But I'm going to protect her because that's what heroes do!"_

Francis glanced at the news, half interested; sounded like a kid they were interviewing. And promptly dropped the files he'd been holding. He lunged for the phone. "Arthur!"

* * *

Arthur Bonnefoy-Kirkland had so been looking forward to a nice day. The stocks had been stable. The tea had been strong. He had gotten plenty of work done, and it wasn't even his lunch break yet. And then the phone call came.

" _Arthur! Arthur-the kids-télé-now-"_ _  
_

"Francis? What in the world is going on? You don't usually call during work hours."

" _Le télé! Regarde-lui!"_

"You idiot, you know I don't speak French. Calm down, love, and explain to me what the hell is going on."

_"Just look at the news. Please, for moi."_

Realising that continuing to ask questions would get him no further, Arthur obediently changed the telly from the market to channel 5.

"Bollocks."

* * *

He had met Francis at two blocks away from the incident, per his husband's request. They could see the media crowds from half a block away; evidently they had attracted rather a lot of attention from the press. As soon as he'd seen how they were dressed, he'd understood Francis's alarm. The kids usually got up to some hijinks, true, but they'd never done anything this brash. He was out of breath, he was missing work, and Francis had worked himself into a right tizzy. Oh, they were in such trouble when they got home. He and Francis were pushing their way through all the media workers now, people in well cut suits holding cameras and microphones and moving lights and other equipment. A burly line of security guards blocked the way to the boys, however; something he was most unhappy about.

"Excuse me, sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed past this point," the security guard said. "Could I please see your pass or your ID?"

"I don't need a bloody security pass, I'm their father! And this is-well, their other father!"

"-je ne sais pas où j'ai perdu mes fils-"

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you knew anything about these two children you would know that they have no parents. They were unfortunately orphaned at a young age. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the area, as you are a potential threat. And shame on you for trying to take advantage of two kids!"

"-je suis le pis père, pourquoi mon pauvre Alfréd, mon pauvre Mathieu?-"

"For god's sakes, man! My husband is on the verge of a fucking mental breakdown because those are our kids! That's Alfred in the hat and Matthew in the skirt, and we adopted them six years ago! I will show you all the fucking proof and ID you need as long as you  _turn the cameras off and let us in!_ "

The silence sunk in slowly. One by one, the cameras shut off and the lights died. Voices fell away into nothingness, and even the producer said "I'm going to have to call you back," and hung up the phone.

"Thank you," Arthur said, his voice deadly calm and dangerously quiet. Francis, still weeping softly, flung himself past the guards and embraced his two children.

There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent. Today, it looked like he was going to have to utter one of them, whether he liked it or not.

"Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level in front of all these people. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?"

The scene erupted into chaos. The producer yelled "that's a dude?" while others were begging to turn the cameras back on. "This'll break headlines!" Francis was babbling some nonsense about "It's okay,  _Mathieu,_ we accept you and love you no matter what-"

Arthur slowly lifted his head and turned the power of his glare on them once more. Once again they fell silent. Alfred, at least, had the decency to look sorry.

"It seemed like a good way to pay for my video game at the time?"

"Oh Mon Dieu.."

Arthur nodded crisply to the producer and his men.

"And with that, gentlemen, we will be taking our leave now. If you require further proof of our identification before we leave, my husband and I will happily provide that for you."

The security guards wordlessly moved out of the way, and Arthur escorted his family to the waiting car.

* * *

Alfred had dessert and cartoon privileges taken away for two weeks; Matthew only had it for one week (Arthur had said wearing that monstrosity of a dress on national television had been punishment enough. When Alfred complained that it wasn't fair, Arthur said he could wear the dress in public for a whole day, and that had shut him up relatively quickly). The two boys and his rather taxed husband had long since retired to bed, so he felt a jolt of adrenaline when he heard the patter of footsteps from the kitchen. He turned to see a rather sleepy and thoughtful looking Matthew standing just behind the sofa.

"Father, are we orphans?" he asked, surprisingly direct for the shy child.

Wordlessly, Arthur patted the cushion beside him, and Matthew sat. He decided that honesty was better than a fairytale of half truths, because he couldn't bring himself to lie to his children, who he loved so much.

"You  _were_  orphans. Your birth-mother, she unfortunately passed away shortly after you were born. But because she passed away, Francis and I were able to bring two wonderful children into our house. It's okay to be sad about your mother-or curious, because intellectual curiosity is nothing to be ashamed of. If you want to learn more about your father or any living family, we could try to find them. Francis and I will understand. But I want you, and Alfred too, to understand that we love you unconditionally regardless. And you will always be my son." Matthew nodded, then smiled.

"Later, Father. You and Papa are the only daddies I need."

And with that, Arthur led his son to bed and kissed them both goodnight. He let himself fall into bed next to his perfect lover, and fell asleep thinking of his perfect sons, and dreamed of how lucky he was to have his flawless, flawless family, even with all their shenanigans.

 


	5. The Curious Incident of the Whipped Cream in the Nighttime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Latvia's whipped cream keeps mysteriously disappearing, and he cannot for the life of him figure out who's taking it.

Latvia really wasn't sure where all the whipped cream in the house went. He knew Estonia wasn't eating it, that much was obvious. Estonia wasn't really fond of dessert in general, and he really wasn't fond of ice cream sundaes. He knew Toris ate it from time to time, but he always asked before even so much as touching it, let alone taking huge heaping helpings that left Latvia with none for his daily dessert ritual. So that left the newest addition to their household.

Poland.

The house had been crowded enough without him in the first place. Even without Mr. Russia taking up so much room, the three Baltic states found that the apartment where they lived (for financial purposes, they would always insist) seemed to have become smaller over the years. It was like entering Antonio's bull fights trying to get to the shower in the morning. The sofa never seemed quite big enough for everyone to see the TV at the same time, so someone would always be stuck with that awkward angle that made the picture oddly saturated with colour. Worst of all, only one person could use the phone at a time, so it meant scheduling date nights was extra difficult. Switzerland gave him enough trouble already, he didn't want any more obstacles. But they had lived in worse conditions, and despite their minor frustrations with one another and the occasional spat, they really got along quite well. He hadn't counted on Poland being added to the mix.

Feliks made life interesting, to say the least. Firstly, he didn't think Poland was a very good friend to Toris. Secondly, he'd never met anyone who talked quite so much and quite so annoyingly in his entire life, including Alfred and Prussia. Thirdly, he was a bit of an airhead, which made dinnertime conversation utterly intolerable. He supposed he could have gotten over Feliks's talkativeness if he at least had something interesting to say (and he knew that this might have sounded hypocritical coming from someone who constantly got scolded for having "diarrhoea of the mouth" but Poland really took it to a whole new level) but his topics of conversation were rarely interesting or useful. And fourth, he was absolutely sure that Poland was eating his whipped cream. There were a few things Latvia couldn't live without, and whipped cream was a solid third on that list. So there was only one thing left to do-at least according to all the superhero comics Al had bought him for his birthday even though his birthday wasn't for another two weeks-catch the perpetrator!

(Here Estonia had interrupted his train of thought, which he must have been thinking aloud, to tell him that he was utterly delusional and really must have been spending too much time with America lately.)

So Latvia's mission began. He started by loitering around the fridge, hoping to catch Poland in the act of stealing it. No luck. He lingered at the dinner table, hoping that Poland would suggest topping their desserts with whipped cream, but he did not. He ambled his way through the house over and over (until Estonia and Lithuania yelled at him for "wearing out the carpet"), hoping to see Feliks stealing from the fridge when he thought there was no one around to see. He didn't. Latvia was at his wit's end.

It wasn't until three weeks after his unofficial declaration of war that he solved the mystery. It was late in the night, or perhaps very early in the morning, and he had shambled downstairs rather sleepily, hoping for a midnight snack. The stairs groaned oddly on his way down, he noticed, and he made a mental note to tell Estonia door to the kitchen swung open upon a horrifying sight. Lithuania was lying on the kitchen table, covered in sticky remnants of his beloved whipped cream. And Poland was licking it off of him.

Horrified, he threw the door shut, screaming as if excess noise might drive the visuals out of his head, and he could hear Poland letting out some rather girlish shrieks and Liet's cursing from behind the door. This was followed by the thumping footsteps of Estonia and the emergence of two very sheepish and embarrassed looking nations from the kitchen. At least they were no longer naked-although their improvised tea-towel loincloths were not a drastic improvement. Estonia took one look at the disheveled, almost-nude and whipped cream covered couple, the messy kitchen table, and the still screaming Latvia (threatening to call Russia shut him up at least) and very calmly went to the kitchen, where he wrote on one of the sticky notes on the fridge:

_Whipped cream 2 cans_

_new table-ask Sweden about bargain._

He then turned to the assembled crowd and said,

"I am now going back to bed. And anyone who wakes me will find themselves in the presence of a very tired, very hungry, _very_ pissed off Russia, Germany, _and_ Switzerland in the near but unexpected future. Any questions?"

The chastised group shook their heads.

"Excellent."


	6. Of Laundry and Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, England knew he should have done the laundry. America, on the other hand, doesn't seem to share his opinion.

England rummaged through his wardrobe with a quiet air of desperation. He knew he'd gotten lazy about the washing, what with the current crisis negotiating between the usually peaceful Ukraine and her slightly psychotic brother, but surely he hadn't let himself fall to the slovenly habits of Prussia-or worse, America. But apparently he had. He was all out of formal shirts, with even the least dirty among them carrying the unmistakable odour of sweat and grease from his chips (admittedly, his diet had been declining as well). He couldn't even find a clean pair of jeans, let alone slacks. He pushed aside racks of empty hangers, the final act of a desperate man. He did have a tuxedo, but he'd never hear the end of it from the other nations, some of whom already considered him overdressed. There was no way in hell he was going to break out his pirate suit, even if he personally found it rather flattering. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed at the very last clean pair of pants that he owned (and they really were the last pair, he'd triple checked).

"Come on, old friend. Let's see what you look like after all these years."

After wriggling into them, England turned this way and that way in front of the mirror. They were a little snugger, to be sure, but they buttoned without effort and they sat comfortably on him. Not bad for forty-two years. He did manage to find a simple, well cut green t-shirt that could probably pass for something a little more polished with the aid of his informal jacket.  _Better this than dirty clothes,_ he reassured himself, and strode purposefully out the door.

* * *

When America saw England walking into the world meeting, he nearly spat out his soda. From the waist up, he looked practically normal. A green shirt and casual jacket, nothing especially out of the ordinary for a day in late April. But from the waist down, he was wearing pants. Leather pants. Incredibly tight, well made, deliciously sexy leather pants. And America came dangerously close to jumping him then and there when England bent over to put his briefcase down and America got an unobstructed view of what those leather pants did for England's already rather attractive ass. Realising that he was probably staring far longer than was appropriate, he swallowed hard and wouldn't let himself look up from his notebook for the rest of the meeting. (It was observed by Germany, who had noticed the source of his friend's discomfort, that America had taken the best-and only-notes in his entire existence today. Perhaps he should ask England to wear those pants more often, as a favour to the countries of the world.)

* * *

England did notice that America was unusually quiet and attentive this meeting, as well as unusually flushed. The nation rarely paid attention except in times of greatest crisis-and although he knew America cared about Ukraine's well being and needed little excuse to fuel his rivalry with Russia, he was far too self absorbed to care this much about policy making. So what else was different? ...oh.  _Oh._ The pants. It had to be the pants. England let a smirk curl over his lips. This could be fun. When the meeting was adjourned for lunch and the nations began to file out, England called across the table,

"America? Do you mind waiting a moment? I want to have lunch with you, but I just need to get a few papers in order..." America nodded in response, still resolutely looking at the table. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.

When the conference room was finally empty of other nations, England finished gathering up the last of his papers (and took his time doing so) and sidled up to America.

"Ready for...lunch?" he murmured in the most seductive voice he could manage.

"Lunch! Right! Yeah, lunch! Lunch is a good idea!" America squeaked.

"America, love?"

"Yeah?"

"You're blabbering."

"Okay! I'll be quiet! I promise!"

America turned the swivel chair away from England as he rose, only to find that the other nation had looped around the back of the chair to stand in front of him. This was not good.

"Tell me, America, what do you think of my new outfit? Well, it's not really new...I figured a little throwback to the 70s was long overdue. Those were better times..." As he spoke, he pivoted slow quarter turns in front of an increasingly flustered America. And he had to try one more thing. The cherry on top, if you will. He reached out with slender, tapered fingers, and slowly dragged them up the entire length of Nantucket. Whereupon America promptly seized his wrists and pinned him against the conference table.

"I am going to kiss you now," he growled, and proceeded to lower his mouth to England's. If the elder nation hadn't learned self restraint and patience at a young age (growing up with Scotland and France around had required a lot of that) he would have finished right there. Instead, the kiss continued. It was deep and passionate and aggressive; clearly America wasn't used to being teased. When they came up for air minutes later, England found his neck, jaw, and collarbones similarly devoured, with America only pausing twice to growl

"Mine," before biting particularly hard. England would be lying through his teeth if he said afterwards that he didn't find it incredibly sexy.

When the other nations returned from lunch, there were a few chuckles and lewd comments from the other nations. England sighed, America joined in on the boisterous good humour. Germany just looked as though he was not paid nearly enough to put up with the antics of the other nations. But despite all his blustering, he did sit down in America's lap-after much wheedling from the other nation-and when the countries did finally stop staring at them he whispered "Mine" in return. And both he and America smiled.

* * *

As he undressed that evening, he contemplated doing the washing that he so desperately needed to do. But then again, his pants had been so effective... Maybe he would break out his old pirate clothes again.

 


	7. Russian Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred refuses to admit that he is sick. Furthermore, he thinks fast food is the cure to a (economy-induced) bout of the flu. Luckily for him, Russia is there to sort this misunderstanding out.

Alfred woke up to the sound of a shrill phone ring. He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach. It felt like he was having the worst hangover of his life-only that didn't make sense, because he hadn't had anything to drink last night. Seriously, he'd been so swamped with paperwork he hadn't even had a beer, which was well within the realm of his alcohol tolerance anyway. So why was he-nevermind, the phone was on its last ring. He picked up with a click.

"Hello?" he croaked, then cleared his throat to get rid of the raspy sound. God, what was wrong with him today?

"Hello? This is Ludwig. I was wondering if you were planning on attending the meeting today, especially given that it started forty-five minutes ago."

"Ah, shit! Luddy-"

"Don't call me that!"

"-I seem to have overslept-"

"...America? Are you feeling all right?"

"Huh? Yeah, fine. Just a little funny, I guess. But not bad. I'll be there in half an hour."

"It's fine, we're only discussing the Olympics today. You sound sick; stay home and rest. We don't want you infecting anyone else."

"Whaaaat? Dude, heroes don't get sick!"

Here there was some muffled noise that sounded a lot like an argument. When the phone was speaking clearly again, the voice had a remarkably different accent.

"Alfred. You're sick. Stay home, for god's sakes!"

"Hey, Arthur, nice to hear from you. How are you? I'm great!"

"If you're sick you shouldn't be wasting your breath making meaningless small talk."

"Hah! Dude, Iggy, you're like the biggest small talker there is!"

England sighed. America could almost see the other nation pinching his nose, enormous eyebrows knotted together in frustration.

"Listen, I can't come over until after the meeting wraps up-I'll send someone else over with some food and tea."

Here England was interrupted by a distant-sounding

"Feel better America!"

and again by a

"Nein! Do not interrupt people when they are on the phone! It is rude!"

before finishing with a frustrated sigh.

"I'll call you later."

America normally would have been angry that someone had hung up on him, but his head was spinning so badly that all he wanted was to lie back down. Unfortunately, if someone was coming over, that wasn't an option. He did manage to drag himself out of bed, whereupon he promptly bolted for the bathroom and retched up bile. Maybe he really was sick.

Gathering a blanket and some throw pillows, he did manage to build a nest for himself on the sofa of his apartment and sleep for another while-an hour? two? time passed strangely in the fogginess of his mind-before the doorbell rang.

"It's unlocked," he called out.

"Amerika, you should really be more careful, da?"

Oh fuck no. Oh Iggy did not just-he must be hallucinating-why the hell was Russia here? After a moment's contemplation, Alfred still hadn't found a plausible answer, so he phrased the question aloud.

"Russia, what the hell are you doing in my house?"

"England sent me. He said you'd need someone to take care of you because you are sick."

"I can take care of myself just fine."

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"No."

"Have you tried any herbal remedies, like tea or honey?"

"No."

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"No."

"Have you done anything to make yourself well again?"

"No, dammit, I've been miserable all morning! I haven't had the energy to do fuck all!"

"Then that is why you need someone to take care of you."

"Ack, just-I'll get over it in a few days. Must just be an economic downturn."

"You will get over it more quickly if you make an effort with your health regardless of the cause."

Alfred wanted to argue more, he really did. But right now his head was pounding so badly it felt like a midget was taking an axe to the inside of his skull, right behind his eye. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere dark and quiet. With a groan, he sank back onto the pillows, mumbling curses into the fabric. Russia seemed to have noticed the change in the other nation's behaviour and softened. He rooted through a few drawers until he found the cutlery, then poured some of the cough syrup England had given him onto a spoon. Raising it to America's lips, he said

"Amerika, say 'Ahhh," but America turned his head away. He should have expected Alfred to be stubborn. He pushed it against his lips again, and when Alfred turned away and opened his mouth to protest, he slipped the spoon in. Honestly, it was like dealing with a child. He let America sleep for a while while he brewed some tea (strong black tea with oranges and honey, always best for a cold) and started chopping vegetables for the soup. He had to admit America looked almost...sweet, tucked up under the blankets and very sleepy looking. The mismatched superhero boxers and tshirt, plus the lopsided glasses (he couldn't remember what state they were) added a touch of child-like charm, and the way he was tucked up under the afghan gave him an air of not vulnerability, exactly, but a certain peacefulness he didn't have when he was fully himself.

When Alfred woke again about two hours later, the borscht was already simmering, well on its way to being finished, and Ivan was actually humming as he cooked.

"Russia?"

"Ah, Alfred, you are up. Nyet, don't get up! Sit. Here, tea. Drink the tea, it will make you feel better."

Alfred, after the cough syrup incident, knew better than to argue. Besides, unlike Artie's tea, this actually tasted good. Sweet and very citrusy.

"What are you cooking? Is it burgers?" He looked so hopeful Ivan actually felt bad about saying no. It was like saying no to a puppy.

"Nyet. I am making borscht. It is traditional Russian soup made from vegetables. It is very healthy."

America pulled a face but did as he was told. The soup was surprisingly good. Had the unpleasant taste of vegetables, but it was simple, and the fact that it was liquidy made it easier to keep down. The day passed in a haze of soup and tea and Russian accents, punctuated by the occasional cartoon whenever he was feeling up to the challenge of keeping his eyes awake for more than thirty seconds at a time. He hadn't expected Russia to be this...well, this kind. But the older nation had been remarkably patient with him. That was the last thought Alfred had before dozing off again.

It was nearly six by the time England arrived, shaking water off of his umbrella and wellies with aggression.

"Dear God, the meeting ran over because so many people were sleeping through it, it was really that dull-" England paused to slip out of his raincoat and hang it on the top of the doorframe, as he saw neither coat rack nor hall closet.

"-and the traffic was absolutely horrendous on the way home, absolute bollocks, please say that Alfred's doing all right, he usually has such tantrums when he's sick-"

"He is fine, England. He's asleep on the sofa in the living room; I think he was watching some cartoons earlier."

England looked positively baffled.

"Asleep? Really? Are you sure he's not just pretending?"

Russia nodded. England looked at him with something Russia wasn't exactly used to: admiration.

"I'm really quite impressed, usually it takes no fewer than three people to handle him. Well, if he's asleep you could get back to your own work, that is unless you want to stay for tea? You're more than welcome, especially after taking care of Alfred all day."

Suppressing a shudder for the sake of good manners (even he feared England's food), he shook his head.

"Nyet, I think I will be going. I have much of the paperwork to be catching up on. I give you my thanks; may I say goodnight to Alfred?" Without waiting for a reply, he moved from the kitchen to the main room. Alfred stirred at the sound of footsteps.

"Fredka, you are awake."

"Yeah...is Iggy home?"

"Mm, he got in a few minutes ago. He is cooking the dinner now; if I were you I'd keep up the sickness for a while."

At that Alfred actually laughed.

"Dude, you have a point. Hey, Russia-"

"Ivan."

"Ivan," he mumbled, still half asleep.

"Da, Fredka?"

"If...if you ever need me to take care of you...when you're sick, I totally would."

"As long as you are not putting the hamburger on my forehead. Goodnight, Fredka."

"Mm, nighty-night."


	8. Two One-Way Tickets to Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of war, Alfred and Arthur are going to where their love is not a crime, and Francis is helping them to get there.

The rain was beautiful, Alfred thought. Very beautiful, and very English. The ground squelched pleasantly beneath his feet, that strange sucking sound that mud made when your feet were almost pulled right out of your boots because it was so wet and mucky. He turned, sinking against the trunk of a tree, tipping his head back and letting the drops of rain fall into his mouth, cold even in the summer. He stood like that for several minutes. Some of his military training had nagged in the back of his mind for the first few-you're leaving yourself vulnerable!-but that faded with time. After all, there were no more bullets raining down on him from all directions, no swoop in the pit of his stomach as the plane tilted around him, no constant waking in the middle of the night with the air sirens shrieking as another round of bombs leveled the ground around them. Just quiet rain. Said quiet rain was promptly interrupted by a heavily accented French voice.

"Alfred! Mon ami, it is good to see you!"

"Captain Bonnefoy!" Alfred shouted good naturedly in return. The two men clapped each other on the back, Francis pressing a featherlight kiss to the American's cheek.

"Please, Alfred, it is only Francis." He shook his head. "And how is dear Mathieu?"

"Pining for your cooking, I'm sure," Alfred replied. "Since we've been back all I've wanted to eat was old fashioned American burgers and fries, and I think he's suffering from a bit of palate fatigue."

"I suppose it is a good thing you and Arthur found each other, then, as only you two can stomach each other's cooking."

"I suppose it is."

There was a quiet lull in the conversation, where neither man was really certain as to what to say. Their plans for the future, this entire plan had seemed so brave and certain when spoken the first few days after the war had ended. Where it had been so easy to unwrap six chocolate bars in a row after months of rations, where it had been easy to ignore the two missing fingers on Francis's left hand and the jagged scabbing wound over his own hipbone, where he could hug Arthur six times in twenty minutes and no one thought anything of it. No one thought much of anything that day; they were young and wild and finally free, if hardened by the smoke and bullet wounds and shrapnel. But now those dreams and promises made in the golden light of victory seemed foolhardy and damn near impossible.

"Francis, what if he-?" Alfred lets the question hang unfinished in the air, as if voicing his fears might somehow bring them to fruition.

Francis chuckled. "I've known Arthur longer than you have-I fought beside him years before your plane ever swooped over German soil. The man is proud, and insufferable at times, and woefully stubborn, but I've never known him to give up on someone he cared for. When I was shot in the leg and the rest of the squad was willing to leave me-Arthur wouldn't. He cursed me and grumbled at me and said if I killed him he'd haunt me for the rest of my days and well into the afterlife-but he saved me all the same. And he loves you more than anything he's ever cared about in his whole life. He'll be here."

Alfred falls back into contemplative silence. Out of habit, his hand goes to the little scrap of fabric knotted around his upper left arm. It used to be white, embroidered with blue thread (he knew Arthur did it himself, and for all his ribbing it was really quite good) sewn in the shape of an A. It was stained with blood, and soot, and grease from the plane, but it was his lucky charm and it had brought him home safe, just like Arthur promised it would. They all had them; the war had too many dead men for people not to. Francis always carried around a maple leaf, red as a garnet, pressed on heavy ivory coloured paper. Thick stuff, good quality. His brother carried around a little miniature polar bear, similar to the teddy bear he'd had as a child (and was still nestled safely in the attic of their childhood home). He had his bomber jacket, and later, Arthur's hankie. Arthur-Arthur always said it was the gold earring in his left ear, but his real charm was Alfred. He had a photograph of him sewn into the lining of his jacket. He kept every single one of their letters, even though they couldn't say much because of the censors. And a little vial of the aftershave Alfred always wore, Barbasol.

He was brought out of his reverie by a shout.

"Alfred!" the figure called, and the young aviator's face lit up.

"Arthur!" he called in return, arms half flailing as he waved with excitement. He ran towards the man, slowing with a wince as the movement pulled at the last of the stitches in his hip. "Damn wound," he muttered with a scowl. And then he found himself in Arthur's arms. God, how he'd missed this closeness, this warmth, the feeling of completion. They kissed, Arthur's lips hot and dry, Alfred's wet from drinking in the rain, tasting of honey and salt and something almost buttery, tasting of army rations and celebratory sweets and warm beer, tasting of whiskey and breakfast tea and coffee so strong it made your eyes water, tasting of ink blotted paper and sugar roses, of everything and nothing at all. It was blissful.

Francis smiled as he watched the two of them cling to one another like lost puppies, desperate not to let go for the fear that they might never find one another again. He cleared his throat, which made Arthur leap away from the other man, sheepish and apologetic. Francis laughed at the other man's stammered apologies and self-conscious face.

"There is no need to apologise, my friend. I am happy to see you both in good health and happy."

"Then why did you interrupt us?" Alfred grumbled.

"Because I never grow tired of teasing poor Arthur. Think of it as revenge for all the times he called me frog face-although this drags you into his punishment...perhaps I'll have to come up with another strategy."

The little group paused for a minute, unsure of exactly how to begin a goodbye now that there was no danger of it being forever. It felt like it, though-felt like the end of an era.

"So I guess we'll be going, then," Arthur said, evidently feeling uncomfortable. "Starting the new chapter of our lives and all that."

Francis looked at them with soft eyes, the moment bittersweet. "Here. I've left you a list of restaurants in Paris that you should go to, some of my personal favourites. You'll like it there, I promise."

They all nodded again, touched at his display of thoughtfulness.

"We'll see you around, though, right?" Alfred asked. "I mean, you live in France..."

Francis laughed, happy to diffuse some of the tension.

"But of course, mon ami! I know I'll be spending some time with Mathieu in Canada for a while...but if things go well-who knows? We may have to join you in Paris," he said with a wink.

"Take good care of Mattie for me. He's kind of like family," Alfred piped up.

"I would never dream otherwise."

"I...I guess this is goodbye, then?" Alfred said tentatively.

"Brilliant powers of deduction at work again?"

The two men hugged, Alfred clapping Francis on the back several times before backing away.

"You were a good captain...and a better friend."

"I could not have asked for a more loyal friend myself. Or a better flier."

Then it was Francis and Arthur, and the two men looked at each other for a long time. Alfred wasn't sure what they saw, staring each other down like that, but it must have been powerful, because both men were both blinking away tears after a few seconds. Francis put his arms around the Englishman tentatively, as though unsure as to how he'd react, and then tightened his arms when he felt Arthur return the gesture. The motion encompassed years of friendship-rivalry aside, due to their competitive and sarcastic natures-years of chess games and shrapnel, years of cold nights and hot summer days, years of trenches and bombs and gunfire. Years of staying awake in their tents together, unable to go to sleep because the thunder always left them with the feeling of being under attack. Years of reading together, poetry and philosophy and fiction-of telling each other of their feelings for Matthew and Alfred, of devising this escape to Paris. The rain blurred their vision and dampened Francis's cape (Alfred and Arthur and even Matthew never passed up an opportunity to mock him for it), and for a while the only passage of time that either of them were aware of was the dripping of raindrops from Francis's long hair onto the back of Arthur's neck.

It was three hundred and forty four drops later that the two of them stepped away from each other-Alfred had been counting. They both nodded once, as if to confirm that the other would be okay, and, reassured, Arthur went to stand beside his lover, taking his hand as he did so.

"I propose a toast," Francis murmured. The other two looked at him in puzzlement, given the lack of drinks or other social indicators that a toast was the appropriate response to the situation. Raising an invisible glass, he continued, "To the rest of our lives-may the future years be happier than the past ones."

And with that, all three turned their faces up into the rain and smiled.


	9. The Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected roommate situation at a World Conference leads to some late night confessions.

Arthur absolutely hated having meetings in Canada, especially in April. Most countries were quite sensible about where they held their meetings; America had his in DC, the seat of his government; he had his in London, a city with some of the finest history and culture in the world; even Spain, who he detested, had his in Barcelona, where it was sunny and there was usually a football match going on. Now, it wasn't that he disliked Canada as a whole. Not at all. He found some of the cities in Quebec to be quite beautiful, and in all parts of the country there was usually a live hockey game to watch. He wouldn't pretend to understand the game, but it was action packed and interesting to watch. But because Canada got all in a tizzy about "protecting the secret of the nations" or some bullshit like that, they were currently situated in a small cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere with no one but each other for company. Bloody brilliant.

Also, in what other country would it be  _sleeting_ in  _April_?

But he steeled himself against weather and lack of cellphone service and America's endless ranting about superheroes, telling himself that he just had to make it to the end of the day. That was it-just to the end of the day. Meetings always got better after the first day of ridiculous suggestions had concluded. And indeed, his day was looking up. The kind woman who ran the resort (who must have been eternally grateful for so many customers during the slow season) had brewed him an excellent cup of tea and sandwiches-crusts cut off and all. The sleet had tapered off into a light drizzle, not unlike his own London rain. And before dinner, someone lit the large fireplace in the main dining area that gave the whole place a warm and cozy feeling. Plus, sitting close to the fire gave him the added benefit of being at the farthest point in the room from France. Most of the nations wanted to retire early; several of them were dealing with some rather unfortunate cases of jet lag and everyone (well, everyone worth listening to) wanted a fresh start for tomorrow. It took Canada a while, mostly due to the other countries being unable to hear him, but he did manage to herd them together and read out the room assignments.

"Germany and Italy...myself and Prussia...China and Russia...Norway and Denmark...Japan and Korea...America and Ukraine...Switzerland and England..."

England breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, Vash was dreadfully boring at times and altogether a little trigger-happy, but he knew for certain that he wouldn't be dealing with late night drunkenness or other tomfoolery. Besides, they might actually be able to use their mornings wisely and discuss what had gone on during the meetings, as both of them were early risers. All of this would have been entirely possible had Canada not made a fatal mistake:

"...and France and Liechtenstein." Poor Matthew had barely even finished his sentence before Switzerland was on his feet, glaring at the blonde haired nation, who was currently sipping a glass of wine. England snorted. How typical.

"I absolutely refuse to let my little sister sleep with that...sleaze of a nation," he said, jerking his chin towards the offender. "She will be rooming with me."

"Vash, this really isn't-"

"Lili, does he look trustworthy to you?" Arthur might have been imagining it, but he thought France actually looked a little hurt at that statement. The way he was currently worrying his lip certainly seemed to indicate that, in any case.

Poor Matthew looked at a loss for words. Canada, like Japan, was so polite and hated upsetting the other nations-especially since they were his guests.

"I'm so sorry, Vash...I don't know how the rooms can be rearranged...everyone already has a roommate and some of them have already retired for the evening. Reorganizing the rooms would be incredibly difficult..."

It was now that Francis decided to speak up.

"Lili could room with Vash and we could avoid disturbing anyone if Arthur and I room together."

Oh no. Oh  _no way in hell._

But Matthew was sending him such a pleading look, absolutely begging him to help this meeting go smoothly, and Switzerland looked like he might kill him if he didn't accept. So, scowling as he did so, he agreed to room with France.

The problems had started as soon as they arrived. Firstly, there was only one bed in the room. That and that ridiculous little couch thing.

"It's a  _divan,_ you barbarian."

And that was all the two nations needed to set off a particularly spectacular round of fistfighting. Then Francis had decided to take a shower at nearly midnight-"I wasn't tired" was all he had to offer in his defense-and the running water kept Arthur awake for another hour. And when he finally did emerge, he was wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips so carelessly it looked as though it might drop to the floor at any second. Arthur swallowed, mumbling

"Put some clothes on, frog," as he did so. Francis, after much unnecessary hip-wriggling, eventually consented to do so, at which point he promptly crawled into bed.

"I wanted the bed."

"But I'm already in the bed."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, but I  _wanted_  the bed. I have a bad back."

"It is because you are getting old, mon ami. You could always share with me, surely that is not so terrible?"

"Forget I said anything. Goodnight, frog."

France chuckled. "Goodnight, my very grouchy rabbit."

It was 3:24 when Arthur woke up to the sound of thunder. He shivered, turning into the back of the couch-divan-hoping that would lend some warmth, and readjusted the throw cushion he was using as a makeshift pillow. It had left a crick in his neck. The thunder boomed again, and Arthur flinched involuntarily.

"I know you are awake, Arthur."

He sighs. France is really not one of the entities he really wants to deal with right now.

"Go to sleep, Francis. I'm just a little cold."

A moment's pause, and then his voice rises from the bed again.

"I am more than willing to share my blankets with you."

Arthur snorts. "My friend, I am not so cold that I have forgotten my pride."

"Then do it for me. I am cold myself." England turns the words over in his head, trying to figure out what advantage France can possibly gain from this. He shakes his head, deducing that he will never understand the Frenchman.

"I'm sure you'll live," he mutters, and he hears Francis's long suffering sigh before they both turn over and shut their eyes. But try as he might, he can't shut out the sound of the thunder. Each echoing boom is a musket shot from Alfred, a cannon's boom against the Light Brigade, and worst of all, the endless bombardment of the Blitz. After the third flinch Francis interrupts again.

"Arthur, for god's sake, stop being so stubborn and just get in the bed."

"No."

"I'll share the blankets with you."

"No."

"You, my little grumpy rabbit, are one of the most stubborn nations I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Would it make you feel any better if I said I knew the reason why you're awake?"

"No."

"Is that the only word you know?"

"No." And at this point, for some reason, Arthur finds himself smiling. He's not quite sure why-it's nearly half past three in the morning, he's cold, his neck hurts, he's sharing a room with his arch-rival, and there's a thunderstorm going on outside-but France is making him laugh. The other man interrupts his train of thought by getting out of bed and turning on the lamp.

"-yes, turn on the fucking sun in the middle of the night, why don't you?" England mutters, scowling as he does so. France just shrugs.

"Just be grateful the power's not out. I love my dear Mathieu, really, but his government is being utterly nonsensical about the need for secrecy. I haven't seen civilisation for miles." And again, against all rationality, Arthur finds himself laughing out loud. France digs around in his suitcase for a while and comes up with a bottle of wine-of course-a rosé if he's not mistaken. Arthur always had a weak spot for rosé wine. Francis uncorks the bottle and drinks straight from its mouth, which startles Arthur because he'd expected more refinement from his roommate. Francis must have read his look, because he laughs and passes the bottle.

"Arthur, mon cher, it is nearly four in the morning and I am freezing. Now is not the time for formality." On that front Arthur has to agree. He takes a long drink from the bottle, and the wine is quite good. Crisp but sweet, with a definite taste of summer to its grapes, a pleasant reminder of warmer seasons to come. It would benefit from some chilling, he thinks, but as there isn't a mini fridge in their room, they'll have to make do. The moments between them are long and quiet as they pass the bottle back and forth, and it is only a few minutes of the silence before Arthur breaks the tension.

"What did you mean, you know why I'm awake?"

Francis actually looks at him with an almost sympathetic look, as though he can't quite fathom why the nation in front of him is so confused.

"You're afraid of thunder," he says quietly, and England just stares at him irrationally angry and terribly afraid that it is  _that fucking obvious_ to everyone who knows him. But Francis continues.

"You don't like thunder because it reminds you of your worst memories. Your worst memories are built on gunpowder and smoke-and the lightning and echoes brings it all back." He chuckles ruefully at Arthur's expression. "We all bear those scars, mon lapin-you don't have to hide them from me. After all, why do you think I hate the sound of sharpening knives or the crackle of a cozy fireplace?" France is smiling, but his words don't match the haunted look in his eyes, and Arthur knows that the last thing he is thinking of is a cozy fireplace. The answer comes to him suddenly, because it is as much his as it is Francis's-Joan, Joan and Marie, the dark years of war and revolution. The same as his. It always comes back to the same thing. Different wars, different revolutions, but the nations bear the same scars. On the surface, all their wounds show differently; Japan's two burns that bloom across his shoulder blades for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Lithuania's the scars of Russia's reign, Spain the long-knit line that shows where he used to be divided between Castile and Aragon. But underneath it all, the same memories haunt them; blood and fire, war and revolution, their people dead in the gutters or on the executioner's scaffold or buried beneath the rubble of buildings.

Francis is still watching him put the pieces together, and England is aware, for the first time of how strange his thinking must look to an outsider. He rarely does any active thinking in meetings, so as to avoid putting himself on the spot. It would never do to have another country see what he might be planning-that information could put them a step ahead of him. If the enemy doesn't know what your planning, they can't outwit you. He always built a certain degree of flexibility into his plans of course, but the other countries were so predictable that this usually wasn't necessary. Alfred, Francis, Italy-they all wore their hearts on their sleeves, caring not if the other nations saw or no. But Arthur-Arthur was a private thinker, and having Francis watch him left him with a lingering sensation of self-consciousness. His discomfort is palpable, but Francis surprises him yet again.

He sets aside the bottle of wine and very carefully puts his arms around the smaller nation. Arthur tenses-is this one of the notoriously lewd nations plans for pity sex-but Francis just holds him. And several minutes later, Arthur puts his arms around Francis in return. It doesn't quite feel like a crying moment; it feels deeper, more vulnerable than that. Time passes, Arthur isn't sure how much. He can't have had more than a third of the bottle of wine, but his head feels strangely fuzzy and his body feels warm. He feels Francis's arms tighten around him, and then he feels himself being lifted off the floor. He stiffens for an instant, then relaxes into the other nation's arms once more.

"Come to bed, mon lapin," Francis coaxes, and Arthur obliges, curling next to him beneath the blankets.

* * *

When he wakes, early morning sunshine is peeking through the drapes, uncomfortably bright. He buries his head into Francis's chest in response, hoping to shut it out. Francis chuckles, and the sound produces a deep syncopated vibration running counterpoint to the steady thumping of his heartbeat.

"I am afraid it is time to get up, my love."

"Don't call me love," Arthur snaps, albeit without much venom.

"Would you prefer to stay in bed all day?" Francis murmurs, running his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"Mm...you're comfy," he mumbles in return, words muffled by the warmth of Francis's skin.

And Francis smiles, the two of them sinking back into slumber with the memory of rosé wine still lingering on their lips.

 


	10. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis takes a class at a local cooking school despite a strong culinary background, unsure of where exactly his life and career are taking him. There, he meets sunny-dispositioned Alfred, who may just be the fresh breath of air he needs.

France really isn't sure what he's doing here. After all, he already knows how to cook, so why he enrolled in the "Basics for Beginners" class at the New York School of Culinary Arts is beyond him. Maybe it's because he wants to get his feet under him surrounded by an atmosphere that he's familiar with. After all, he grew up in the kitchen; rolling out short pastry with his grandmère in Toulouse, stirring cassoulet with his cousins, or when his mother had remarried and he had gotten to work with his new stepfather in his restaurant. Maybe it's because his friends keep telling him to go out and meet new people, and here is as good a place as any. Or maybe it's because he's thirty and entirely unsure of where his life is taking him right now; although he has a stable job, it's not a career, and he has neither a current partner nor a remarkably interesting social life to help lift him out of the tedium. He surveys the small, eclectic group of people in the room: a grey haired business man probably going through a midlife crisis, a blonde woman a little younger than him interlacing her fingers and chewing on her lip, a stoic gentleman in glasses and a college-aged girl in a headscarf beside him, both reading a different copy of the same textbook, A History of Art and Music in the Baroque Period. They, at least, look mildly interesting-and very happily coupled up, he thinks as he notices that the hands that are not propping up the large and glossy anthology are holding one another.

His train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of the instructor, a peppy woman with badly-dyed hair who introduces herself as Carol. Francis has to keep himself from snorting; women like that are always named Carol or Susie or something else equally saccharine. She is just about to ask them to go around the circle and introduce themselves when the door chimes again and another student, somewhat winded, joins them. He can't help but grin-this one is definitely going to be the interesting member of the class. He has short, sandy blonde hair that sticks up at the front, and is wearing a vintage looking bomber jacket. He adjusts his glasses and shoots everyone a grin, promptly introducing himself as Alfred F. Jones. Francis desperately wants to ask him what the F. stands for but doesn't. The others around the room introduce themselves-he isn't paying attention to the first two but catch that the textbook bearing college couple are named Roderich and Elizaveta-and after he concludes the rite, the instructor tells them to pair off. He grabs Alfred without a second thought, which seems to surprise the other man.

"Dude, are you sure you want me as your partner? Because I can only cook burgers."

Francis has to keep himself from laughing. Normally he holds a certain level of disdain for the culinarily unsophisticated, but Alfred's honesty has a certain degree of charm to it.

"It will all work out, mon ami. Trust me."

"Mon ami? Is that, like, Spanish or something?" Francis pretends to look horribly offended-he doesn't have to try very hard, he is proud of his mother tongue-and objects.

"But it is  _French,_  Alfred, the language of love! The language of beauty!"

The college couple is looking at him a little skeptically out of the corner of their eyes, but Alfred actually looks intrigued.

"French. Huh. I went to New Orleans once, but their French sounded different. I've never been out of the country before," he remarks offhandedly, and that surprises Francis.

"Vraiment? I mean, really?"

Alfred shrugs. "I grew up in the Midwest. Not a whole lot of traveling where I came from-I'm the first one in three generations to leave Indiana," he says proudly, and Francis shoots him a smile.

"Congratulations."

Alfred grins at him in return. "I can't exactly be a hero out in the middle of nowhere, can I?"

Francis realises that he's not even paying the smallest bit of attention to what the instructor is saying, and consequently has no idea what they're meant to be cooking. He decides to go with an old standby and reaches for the asparagus as he looks at Alfred with a smile and says,

"A hero?"

"Yeah! I stopped my roommate from burning the whole building down!"

This alarms Francis. "An arsonist?" Apparently, this idea is amusing to Alfred, because he laughs and rocks back on his heels as Francis methodically chops shallots.

"Nah, Iggy's just a terrible cook. Iggy's my roommate at Colombia, only he's going for his Master's degree." Francis pushes the fact that Alfred, who he has to admit is rather cute, is only in college to the back of his brain.

"I'm sorry,  _Iggy?_ And how in the world did he manage to cause a fire just by cooking?"

"I don't know how he does it either, man! Must be some sort of gift. He just decided to bake scones one morning and next thing I know the whole oven's in flames!" Realising he still hadn't answered the first question, Alfred barreled on. "Iggy's just my nickname for him. Arthur's his real name-Arthur Kirkland-but I call him Iggy. Or Artie."

And Francis couldn't contain his laughter any more, coming dangerously close to cutting his finger as he mashed garlic.

"I should have known," he managed to get out between chuckles, shaking his head.

"Dude, do you know Iggy?"

"I suppose you could say our paths have crossed," he countered with a smirk. Looking at Alfred's eager expression, he hesitated for just a second before continuing with the story. "We were rivals, first and foremost; our universities used to compete against one another. As we were both heavily involved in athletics at our schools, we seemed fated to be pitted against each other in every sport conceivable-football, boating, cricket. We were, of course, the stars of our respective universities, and very evenly matched. I confess that we were rather competitive as well-we always brought out the best and worst in each other when we were competing. Both of our alma maters have remarked that the quality of sports teams at our school has never quite returned to the level which it was at when we were attending. There were a few petty practical jokes between us as well-" here he lifted his eyebrows to indicate that those jokes had been far less 'petty' and far closer to 'warfare', which made Alfred laugh. "-but somehow we ended up becoming friends underneath it all. Drinking buddies mostly, but we still drop each other a line from time to time, Christmas cards and all that. So you're the obnoxious American roommate?"

Alfred mock scowled. "Iggy just doesn't see my charms. But he loves me underneath it all," and flashed Francis a cheeky grin. "Care to tell me about any of those 'petty practical jokes'?"

Francis was only too happy to oblige. "Once, Gilbert, Antonio, and I wanted revenge after a particularly suspicious defeat..."

Francis had hardly noticed the time passing. The stories that he and Alfred shared kept his mind busy, and the endless stirring and slicing kept his hands busy. By the time the three hours was up, he actually felt sorry. He'd pictured the class as being an utter waste of time-and yet he'd immensely enjoyed Alfred's company.  _Stop that,_ his inner voice of reason was telling him.  _He's nine years younger than you and you don't even know if he's gay!_ Somehow, that did nothing to lessen his disappointment.

When Carol came round to inspect their work, her eyebrows lifted.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, this is not what I instructed the class to prepare. Furthermore, this dish is well beyond a beginner's capability-it is closer to the quality I would expect from a restaurant. Why are you here, exactly?" Francis meets her eyes and the challenge unflinchingly.

"I wanted to try something new. Meet new people." The sniff she gives him clearly says 'Do that on someone else's time, why don't you?' but she moves on. He has no idea what's gotten her knickers in a twist-he still paid her, didn't he?

He helps Alfred clean up the workstation. Really, the young American wasn't a half bad cook, and he certainly was hard working. Somehow Francis doubted that there would be any disasters in the kitchen in the future-unless Arthur got too close to the stove. He shook his head. The man really was a terrible cook.

He's not sure what persuades him to say it, as they're nearly out the door. As always, he reverts to his typical French mannerisms in times of great distress-and as flashily as possible, he grabs Alfred by the arm and dips him backward. He murmurs,

"Would you like to join me for dinner on Friday evening?"

He is mortified, he's not sure what has come over him. Yes, he's a terrible flirt, but he only does that seriously with people who have already expressed interest in him and only in jest with friends, like Gil or Antonio or Arthur. Not with mostly-strangers he's known for a few hours. But Alfred, as he always does, surprises him by leaning in and whispering,

"I'd like that." The pair straighten, and Alfred shoots him his trademark grin. Perhaps Francis is imagining it, but it seems a little more flirtatious than before. "You can reach me at Iggy's landline-pick me up at six thirty?" When Francis nods as confirmation, he starts leaning towards the door, but then thinks better of it and leans back in. He kisses Francis on the cheek, just lightly, and then careens out of the building just as fast as he came in.

Francis smiles like a fool all six blocks back to his apartment.


	11. Coffee, Black (But With Two Sugars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Switzerland's morning routine, and how it has changed since Liechtenstein entered the picture.

Switzerland loved his morning coffee. In fact, he was entirely incapable of functioning without it. After all, a man like him deserved a good, strong cup of coffee in the morning, what with all the policing of the other, less responsible nations he had to do.

All right, if he was being perfectly honest, he hated the taste of coffee.

It was just...so bitter! It was black and burnt and tasted a little bit like how petroleum smelled, but he drank it black anyway because it kept him on his toes. Also, loathe as he was to admit it, coffee was always taken black in Roderich's household, as that was how both he and Elizaveta enjoyed their coffee, and he'd kept up the habit ever since.

And then Lili had moved in with him, and his morning routine had changed entirely. Vash was under the impression that there were two different types of morning people: those who genuinely, truly enjoyed the morning and those who rose at the crack of dawn because they had important things to do. He fell firmly into the latter category-in fact, he had yet to meet anyone who loved the morning. Until Lili. She loved to get up to watch the sunrise and go out and pick the wildflowers that grew so abundantly around their house still wet with dew. She loved to make simple breakfasts, brown bread with strong cheese and smoked meats, she loved making herself a small pot of tea that smelt of lemons and raspberries. And her habits slowly started creeping into his mornings as well.

It started off small, with a little bouquet of flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. They were always fresh, changed every two to three days, and when he had voiced no objections after a week, the vases started multiplying. Now they had two on the table, one on the counter, and three perched precariously upon the windowsill. A few weeks after that, he'd come shuffling into the kitchen to find a breakfast plate already laid out for him: two rolls with some excellent gruyere and a well spiced salami. Again he did not voice any objections, and this was likewise incorporated into his daily routine.

For several months there were other, similar changes. Although they both ate their breakfasts in silence-sometimes not even sitting down at the table together-Lili began to leave little bits of her sunshine about the kitchen and breakfast room. A newspaper, always neatly folded next to his cutlery. A sprig of lavender cut from the little herbal garden she had started on his napkin. His slippers freshly warmed. The handcrafted pyjamas, however hideous the shade of pink might have been. And for once, Vash, who was so resistant to change, just accepted the little deviations as part of a new morning routine. Likewise, he began to leave out little things for Lili. He picked up a handkerchief embroidered with primroses when he was walking back from a meeting with his boss because he remembered they were her favourite flower. Whenever the florist's market was having a sale on seeds and bulbs, he remembered to pick up a packet for her. He started to remember to check the tea cupboard before he went out to the supermarket to make sure she had tea for her breakfasts. And following after her brother, Liechtenstein accepted these new aspects of their morning routine without question.

The one thing that she never touched was his coffee. Perhaps it was because she knew that he was entirely dependent upon the caffeinated beverage in order to not be more trigger happy than he already was. Perhaps it was because she found the beverage repulsively strong, like England. Or perhaps she knew that her brother was still slowly adjusting to her presence in his household. It wasn't until they had been living together for nearly a year that she asked him why he took it black, and Vash had only shrugged, unable to think of a good answer.

The next morning, when he descended to the breakfast room, he found the steaming cup of coffee already set out for him, next to his place setting. Wary, he sniffed at it, then tasted. It was strong, there was no doubt about that-but sweet, also. And it really was much better this way. Lili was facing away from him, washing up her own breakfast dishes, and he decided not to interrupt her. But he smiled, and for once finished his entire mug.

Sugar in his coffee for a sweeter chapter of his life, he thought with a smile. And for the first time he invited his little sister to sit and talk with him over breakfast.

 


	12. Unsent Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert-dear Gilbert, who thought himself the centre of the universe-wrote diaries (although recently he'd upgraded to blogs). He wrote by himself, for himself, about himself; his was a history told in the written word, told in self-contemplation. Antonio preferred mementos; his was a story told in trinkets. All nations kept reminders of their great ages, of their times of greatest power, of war and culture; but Spain was a borderline hoarder. He kept anything of the littlest significance, from a quill he once used to write phallic poetry in the fifteenth century to a pair of shoes he'd danced in at the latest Eurovision contest.
> 
> But Francis-Francis's life had always been about other people. France was the nation of love, of art, of culture, all of which needed the appreciation of other people to thrive. So France's history was told in letters.

France whacked his head on the sloped ceiling. Cursing loudly and clutching his head, he pause to scowl menacingly at the offending part of his house before continuing with his task. It was high time he cleaned the attic; after all, he thinks that the last time he was up here was after the Second Great War ended. France isn't really one to dawdle in the past. After all, the time at hand is the time most enjoyable, he thinks. He pushes his way through artifacts, smiling at some and frowning at others, shaking layers of dust off of the objects alike. He passes a sword from his war with Prussia and Spain, the very first act of friendship among the Bad Touch Trio, and he laughs aloud at the memories of their drunken nights camped out on the battlefield. He frowns at a bloodstained handkerchief, a remnant of the Terror, his darkest days. Silk stockings and lipstick from the height of artistic popularity in the 20s-he knew he had something from Zelda around here somewhere. Lace fans and artificial roses from the grandeur of the 19th century, leaving him lost in a wandering daydream of high kicks and swirling skirts. Ropes of pearls from the grand masquerade of the Cloth of Gold, and a splintered lance from a tourney that he rode in what feels like eons ago. He wades in past years and dust mites and long forgotten memories, including those that should have perhaps stayed buried.

He isn't looking for the chest when he finds it; rather, it is a painful discovery bravely undergone by one of his toes as the rest of him was tending to far less adventurous tasks. The chest looks older than anything else in the room. It is battered cherrywood, and the bronze that holds it together is well scratched. The lock is crudely made and engraved with some of his earliest art that still evokes the Celtic styles of Gaul. The dust on  _this_ one is so thick that he needs to sweep the lid three times before he can see it for what it truly is, and he laughs. The sound is a little tinny.

Gilbert-dear Gilbert, who thought himself the centre of the universe-wrote diaries (although recently he'd upgraded to blogs). He wrote by himself, for himself, about himself; his was a history told in the written word, told in self-contemplation. Antonio preferred mementos; his was a story told in trinkets. All nations kept reminders of their great ages, of their times of greatest power, of war and culture; but Spain was a borderline hoarder. He kept anything of the littlest significance, from a quill he once used to write phallic poetry in the fifteenth century to a pair of shoes he'd danced in at the latest Eurovision contest.

But Francis-Francis's life had always been about other people. France was the nation of love, of art, of culture, all of which needed the appreciation of other people to thrive. So France's history was told in letters.

Mildly curious (and yet dreading to know, or rather confirm, what was inside), France spent the next several minutes searching for the key. When his attempts succeeded in no venture except perhaps ruining his clothes, he simply shrugged and grabbed the nearest weapon: a pistol. He slammed the butt of it into the lock ( _after_ checking that it was unloaded, he was not an idiot), and on the third try it cracked. The contents of the chest were remarkably well preserved, especially considering their age. Shunting aside boxes and military uniforms and old canvases, he sinks down until he is sitting cross-legged on the floor, and then pulls the leaves of paper into his lap and begins to read.

_Dear England,_

_You're stupid. I hate you. You and your stupid messy hair and those horrendous caterpillars you call eyebrows._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I will never forgive you. If it weren't for you, Jeanne wouldn't have died. Know this, bâtard-I will never, ever forget that you were the one who took her away from me._

_France_

Well, that wasn't very encouraging. He continues to sort through the vellum and parchment, and soldiers on in his reading.

_Dear England,_

_Remind me to never ever ever invite you to a "conference of mutual interests" again. In fact, I think it would be better off for all of us if our royal families perhaps never even met again. I never knew festivities could be so...boring. Also, your food is barbaric to the point of it being hardly edible. If I am served one more piece of boiled, brown, unidentifiable meat I will scream. And your "delicacies," like the peacock...burnt beyond the point of rescue. Horrendous.  
_

_France_

_P.S. Your fashion sense is improving, though. That green doublet you were wearing made you look almost_ _attractive. Must be all the times you've been watching moi._

* * *

_Dear England,_

_...I don't know why I care, but your leaving the Church worries me. I know this Henri of yours can be difficult, but surely you can come to some sort of agreement? I worry for your soul._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_Occasionally I forget what an idiot your queen is; it's a trait she shares with you. I know you're utterly enamored with her, but she will never love you. She's refused every proposal of marriage, and she will die soon anyway. It shan't be tomorrow, it shan't be next week, but to us it will seem the blink of an eye. And I hope you will understand what it means to love a mortal and have them taken away from you. I hope all your love freezes in your heart in shards and you finally understand what I lost when I lost Jeanne. Strange, how it gives me no pleasure to write this. Perhaps because I know she is lost to me. I think I have drunk too much wine; when Elizabeth dies I advise you do the same._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_My dear Arthur, you can't possibly be serious about making Prussia your ally. I concede that you and I have had our spats, and no one will deny that I am eager for another chance to show you up, but I can't help but fear for your sanity. Prussia? Ten minutes with Gilbert will leave you mad, if you aren't already. I hope you know what you're doing._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_America is my little brother. End of._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_If you can't have America I get Canada. It's only fair. Otherwise we won't be neighbours anymore and how will we continue our squabbles then?_

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_Oh, cher, I am so sorry. I know you didn't want to lose Alfred. He meant the world to you, didn't he? He was your world, your new world, your fresh and shiny chance. You had to let him go, though, don't you see? Because otherwise he would have grown to despise you more, had you kept him there. And I can't think of anything that would break your heart more. I was wrong, when I said Elizabeth was your Jeanne. Alfred is. Alfred is your ashes-of-roses._

_Je suis desolé._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_Fuck you, you son of a whore. By what right do you seize my ships? By what right do you block my trade? Are you the king, that we all must bow down to you? Are you a god now? You don't believe in god, you heathen, so instead you made yourself one._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I tried to warn you not to try and take Alfred back. It only hurts you the more. Didn't you learn that from watching Canada and myself? Don't you ever learn, you stupid, arrogant, foolish, prideful nation?_

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I know it's been a while since we've talked last. I just can't shake the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen soon...like the world will fall out from under our feet._

_France_

* * *

_This has to be written quickly. Even ink is rationed now. Please get here quickly. We need you. Men are dying, some shot some gassed some starving but we're all dying. Please hurry. I'll even grovel but...I don't want to be the next one found dead in a ditch. We need you-I need you, Arthur._

* * *

_Dear England,_

_If we're going to die we might as well die together. I cannot think of a nobler, braver, more stubborn companion to die beside. You're waking, so I should hide this. Can't have you reading my letters._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_You must be sick...you must be sick too. You are, aren't you? God knows poor Alfred's taken the worst of it economically, but it seems to be contagious. How ironic. Don't...don't worry yourself worse over him. I know you always do. He fought in the war with us, he can take care of himself. Unlike you, apparently, because you are so busy with everyone else. Please don't forget being England when you are being an Empire...after all, that happened to me in Russia and I have never been the same since._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I thought we were done with hellfire. I thought we were done with Great Wars. I thought we were done with all of this...god, Arthur, please be alive, please still be fighting, because the world doesn't stand a chance without you. Stay strong, my knight._

_England_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I saw Ludwig today. I don't think I've ever seen him look that miserable. He's at war within himself as much as I am; for every man who shoots a prisoner ten are smuggled across the border. I've seen him helping them, trying to reach for the good inside him. Promise me...promise me you'll never let your boss get as evil as his. I don't think I could live through seeing the emptiness in your eyes._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England STOP_

_I am so hungry even your food sounds appetizing to me now STOP I didn't think I'd ever get that desperate, but the moment has arrived STOP_

_Alright, so I didn't send this just to insult your food STOP I know about the Blitz, and I want you to send me a telegram as soon as you receive this STOP Let me know you're safe STOP I know you're in pain, let me help you if I can STOP Be sure to telegram Alfred, he worries about you STOP Don't let Scotland handle the get well food you know he'll make haggis without you to supervise him in the kitchen STOP Please be safe be strong STOP ...After all, who will I bicker with if you leave STOP_

_France STOP_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_100 years of the Entente Cordiale, hmm? Who would have thought it would last this long? If you told me three centuries ago I would have laughed. Maybe spat in your face, who knows? But I want you to know I'm glad we signed it. I'm glad we fought in the Wars as allies. I'm glad you made it through okay. Yes, I'm glad._

_France_

* * *

Francis let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He wasn't certain what it meant, to have all of the letters laid out in the open, and he wasn't sure he liked it. It left him vulnerable, exposed to the truth he and Arthur kept denying.

Arthur. Arthur-yes, he knew  _exactly_  what he was going to do with the letters now.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland is not expecting mail. Although he has always been a lover of the written word and old fashioned communication, both his boss and the other nations prefer using more modern technology in order to communicate. Humans wouldn't be sending him mail-so why would there be a package on his doorstep. Shrugging, he lugged it to the kitchen table-it was heavy, what in the world was in it?-and set to unwrapping. Being unable to find a pair of scissors, but discovering the box to be heavily taped, the unwrapping had taken the better part of an hour. And when he finally opened the box, he was greeted by a perfectly ordinary sight-paper.

No, not paper. Letters. Hundreds of them. Who would send so many letters at once? Who had written them all? It had to be one of the nations, no one else could have lived that long, but still, it seemed awfully impractical of them. Still, Arthur had never been one to turn down a good mystery (after all, his nation had created Sherlock Holmes) and he set to reading. The first few letters he hardly spared a glance-he should have known it was France sending him hateful letters, and wondered how long he'd been writing these; probably Antonio had put him up to sending them at long last, now that he didn't have an army and pirates at his back. He considered burning the letters, or wondered if shredding them would be more satisfying.

But even for France, a plot of hate-mail revenge seemed a bit much; and if it turned out to be the case, then he could always use what was written in them as fodder for revenge. But he noticed that the letters, which had started off so cruel, grew to blow hot and cold, and there was almost something like genuine affection in the latter ones.

England, unlike France or the Italies, may not have styled himself an expert on romance, but he was a master of storytelling-and even he knew what kind of story had been written on these pages. He might have found amusing that the so called "country of love" could not bring himself to confess, had it not been...rather touching. Fishing his cellphone out from the jumbled reading material that had piled up on his breakfast table, he dialed France's number, determined to spit out what the other nation could not. The phone rang once, twice, a third time-and he finally picked up.

"Allo? C'est Francis qui parle. Comment ça va?"

"France. France, it's me."

"Oh! Arthur!" For once, Francis switched over to English without being hounded about it twenty times. "To what do I owe the... _pleasure_  of this call?"

Arthur would have rolled his eyes at the innuendo, had he not been so focused on trying to spit out his next words.

"Francis, I-"

"Oui?"

"I-thank you. Just thank you."

A long and pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Arthur could have sworn that his heart had stopped so long ago any mortal being would have been dead by now. Had he misread the letters? Did Francis not understand that this was his confession, as much as he could muster? Then Francis spoke.

"You are most welcome. Lapin, would you like to accompany me to dinner?"

And Arthur smiled and smiled and smiled, and replied in return,

"Oui."

 


	13. Honeysuckle and Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romano wonders who Spain sings for, and can't help feeling jealous.

Romano followed the sound of guitar over the crest of the hill, to the fields of heather looked out over Spain's small tomato farm. Spain dealt with his government in Madrid, or in Barcelona, but this was his favourite place to be. A simple country villa, surrounded by tomato plants and wildflowers. Antonio had never been one for gardens; he preferred to let the plants grow where they willed.

_Que una vez amé a una chica_

_Con sol en sus ojos_

_Quién realizó el cielo con las manos_

He didn't recognize the song. Must be one of Spain's own creations. Antonio sat barefoot in the grass, one leg stretched out long while the other propped up his guitar. He was buttery with sun-sweat, and the scent of the flowers he crushed where he lay filled the heavy, humid air.

"Spain!" He barked. "These fucking tomatoes aren't going to grow themselves, you know. Get off your lazy ass and help me!"

Spain's eyes blinked open (how in the world he could play the guitar with them shut Romano would never know) and his face broke into a delighted smile-a child's smile.

"Lovino!" and Romano almost felt guilty for shouting at him. He might be the younger of the two nations, but Spain was still so...he didn't know what it was. All he knew was that Spain had puppy dog's eyes and a sweet smile and would drop anything at a moment's notice to help Lovino. The conquistador was in there somewhere, of that Romano did not doubt; but for now he lay buried deep beneath layers of drowsy smiles, naps in the sun, and music. So he sighs and indulges the other country by sitting down beside him, cross legged in the sun warmed grass.

"That's a new one, isn't it?" he says more quietly, and Spain's eyes flicker for a moment before he nods. "Sing it again," Romano says, and Spain looks much happier to indulge him. His Spanish is rusty, but because he's paying attention this time, he can make out most of what the song says. He wonders who Spain once loved, and the answer comes to him after a moment's pause. He can't help but feel a little angry, almost; he's grown used to being the sole object of Spain's attentions for so long, since he was a child, that he's forgotten that the other nation had history without him in it at all. It is only when he catches a line of the third verse-with eyes of green and skin of gold-that he realises whom Spain is speaking of.

"Aragon."

"Que? Romano, did you say something?" He can hear the pleading note in Spain's voice, begging him to leave the topic alone. Lovino watches him warily for a minute, then shakes his head.

"Play again, Antonio." Spain's fingers return to plucking out the by-now-familiar tune on the guitar, and Romano stretches out beside him, resting his head on Antonio's free leg.  _The tomatoes can wait,_  he thinks, lying here with the smell of sunshine and honeysuckle and lavender all around him. He swears he hears Spain whisper "Te amo, cosa preciosa," but he isn't sure. Real or imagined, it is enough.

 


	14. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bad Touch Trio had always considered themselves eternal bachelors. They loved the single life and all that it brought-men and women of all walks of life, endless drinks, and freedom from responsibility. They heard what responsibility sounded like from Sweden and Finland, and it did not sound like fun. At all. But Canada might just change Prussia's mind.

The Bad Touch Trio had always considered themselves eternal bachelors. They loved the single life and all that it brought-men and women of all walks of life, endless drinks, and freedom from responsibility. They heard what responsibility sounded like from Sweden and Finland, and it did not sound like fun. At all.

But things had somehow...changed over the past few years. Prussia never really did know which one of them changed first-was it Spain or was it France?-but something about their lives had become rather different. France and England were in one of their "let's fuck each other instead of kill each other" phases. But the phase never really seemed to pass, as it had in all the previous years, and suddenly he found himself and Antonio helping Francis pack things into cardboard boxes (the other nation yelling all the while "Be  _careful,_ Gilbert, that's an original Monet!" and other such remarks) and somehow he had never moved out. And Antonio's relationship had changed around the same time; true, he and Romano didn't flaunt it as much as Arthur and Francis did, but they hadn't had as much practice. Give them a few centuries and he was sure they'd catch up. It started off with innocent things; toothbrushes left behind in each other's bathrooms, cannolis and churros exchanged in Tupperware, early (or twice as often, late) morning coffees, one with steamed milk and the other with cinnamon sticks.

And suddenly Gilbert found himself the only one still out at bars at three in the morning, trying (and usually succeeding) to drink everyone else under the table, with a boy or a girl clinging to his arm on the taxi ride home, screaming into the night; the only one waking up the next morning to a roiling stomach and pounding head and Bloody Marys, puking out his guts in the toilet while the shower in the other bathroom ran noisily.

He wished he could put a pinpoint on when that had become their new routine; when he started hearing tales of how adorable Arthur looked when he dozed off reading poetry or how sweet Lovino could be when someone actually took care of him the way he deserved to be taken care of rather than tales of the wildly kinky sex they'd had the weekend before. There was still sex, but of the boring, vanilla kind, and he usually didn't want to hear about it. He'd have to face these people at work at some point in the near future.

Worst of all was the way that France and Spain just would not stop with their  _coaxing._ If he heard one more

"Gilbert, what about that pretty brunette guy you brought over last weekend? Was there something there?"

or

"Prussia, what do you think of Hungary's new dress? She looks nicest in green, don't you think?"

then he was going to scream. He was  _happy,_ dammit, he was happy single and free.

But still not as happy as he might have been had he had someone to actually go drinking with. Statistics proved that drinking was approximately 400.5% more fun with drinking buddies than without. (No, Yong Soo, statistics were  _not_ invented in Korea. He was going to strangle him one day, he really was. He was sure he'd find someone to help him-if worst came to worst, he could always ask England. Dude was always up for some murder, provoked or unprovoked.)

So he was doing a poll of all the available nations that met his "drinking buddy requirements."

1\. Must be single

2\. Must be awesome-although not as awesome as me

3\. Must have high alcohol tolerance

Condition number two led his thoughts straight to Denmark and America, who also fulfilled condition number three. However, Denmark was currently shacked up in some polyamorous arrangement with Belgium and Iceland. He didn't really want to know the specifics of that relationship. And America was in a relationship with Kiku. It was on the casual side, sure, but it was still a relationship. There went those two.

Russia definitely fit both conditions 1 and 3-no one except Belarus was crazy enough to want to date him, and the man drank vodka like water-but condition number 2 was a complete flop.

One of the Irelands might work, or Scotland or Whales (Wails?); they were always up for a trip to the pub, and they were a fun lot. However, Ireland's economy was shot to shit, and she usually skipped meetings to try and deal with her domestic problems more effectively. And the other three usually didn't attend meetings or visit continental Europe much, leaving the running of the UK to their brother and preferring their own company to that of others.

Shit, he was out of ideas. Tiredly, he picked up the phone and pressed the first contact on the list.

"'Sup brah?" Great. One of the countries he'd already crossed off the list. Oh well. Might as well ask America if he knew anyone who might want to come drinking with him.

"America! Know anyone who might want to go drinking with the awesome me?"

The nation on the other end of the line paused for a second.

"Denmark?"

"Spending the night with Belgium and Iceland."

"Blergh. I don't even want to think about that one."

"Me neither."

"Okay...what about Ireland? Or Scotland? No one can hold liquor like them-they even outdrank  _Ivan."_

"Alarming statistic, that is. Remind me to bet on them the next time they show up to a World Meeting, if they ever do-"

"Will do."

"-still, no use, they're still on those godforsaken islands of theirs."

"Ah. That is a problem. What about your brother? He appreciates beer as much as you do. Also, don't you usually drink with France and Spain?"

Of all the times for an American to be perceptive.

"Nah, they're out with their significant others. I didn't want to run the risk of puking all over them. And West is shacked up with Feli again, and he's boring as fuck to drink with. Unless you get him really plastered, not even the possibility of a good story there."

Another moment's pause.

"What about Canada?"

"Who?"

"Dude, you remember Mattie! I totally introduced you last world meeting-"

"I'm only joking, Alfred. As much as England seems to think so, he's not invisible."

"Cool. You'll like Mattie, he likes beer too. Do you have his number, or do you want me to give it to you?"

"Nah, I've got it. Thanks dude!"

"No problem, bro. See ya around."

Prussia considered shouting "Awesome me out!" but the line had already gone dead by the time he decided in favour for. Missed opportunity. Typing furiously, he sent out a text to Matthew:  _going out drinking 2nite, wanna come?_

_sorry, who is this?_

_prussia. gilbert._

_oh. sure, i guess. when/where are we meeting?_

Score! Drinking buddy mission complete!

_outside ur place. 10pm. b there or b square._

* * *

Prussia didn't remember most of that first night of drinking. He did recall that Jager was involved at some point, as were Jello shots. He also remembered that Matthew had liked his beer, and he'd tried Canada's Molson and found it decent. And a stripper who called herself Strawberry and wore nothing but a pink thong and body glitter. Other than that...the night was a blur.

What he did remember was the next morning. He woke as he always did on a Sunday morning, with a mouth like sawdust and a stomach that felt like he'd spent the evening on the deck of one of Spain's old pirate ships after swallowing half the sea in saltwater first. He had mercifully long ago mastered the art of sprinting for the bathroom at breakneck speed with his eyes closed. When he'd finished retching up the remnants of the poison from last night, he stumbled into the kitchen, somehow even paler than usual with dark circles beneath his eyes. Rather than a pretty blonde frying eggs on the stovetop or an even prettier boy with bloodshot eyes popping pills at the kitchen table, he found Canada reading the paper on the sofa. When Prussia stumbled into the room, he set the paper down on his lap and jerked his head towards the table, which is laden with some kind of foodstuff.

"I made pancakes," he says, and Gilbert feels his morning growing that much better.

"Where have you been all my life?" he mumbles, and Canada actually grins.

"Just above West Bumblefuck, Maine-if you hit the North Pole, you've gone too far."

Prussia can't help it-even if it will make his headache that much worse-he laughs, and helps himself to pancakes with melted butter and extra syrup.

* * *

And thus begins their strange drinking friendship. Once or twice a week, they'd head out to a bar or club together and drown their grievances and joys alike in liquor. Although Matt ( _not_ Mattie, the other country insisted) was a quiet person, he was also delightfully snarky, and he was a welcome present in Prussia's flat (no, he did not live in his brother's basement-he had a perfectly respectable 2 bedroom in Berlin). And if either of them noticed Canada's stuff starting to creep into Prussia's, they neglected to mention it.

It started off small at first-just once, Canada forgot his toothbrush at Gilbert's after a spectacularly lengthy weekend of drinking and leaves it there 'in case of emergencies.' Then he starts helping Gilbert strip and make the guest bed because he feels like the sheets are 'too used' after he's slept in them a few times.

"I mean, what if you have a real guest over or something?" Gilbert isn't really sure when Matt stopped being a real guest-he thinks it was maybe after Matthew's maple leaf coffee mug found a place next to France's and Spain's; it's slightly in front of theirs, actually. Or it might have been just before he bookmarks the hockey channel on the TV so Matthew doesn't have to spend forever searching for the channel when he comes over. It might have been when he admitted to liking Molsons almost as much as he liked his own Spatens. He thinks if he had to pinpoint it, it might have been between when they start leaving post-it notes around the house for each other, prompting them to "buy bread!" "change the bathroom towels!" "it's your turn to ask Germany for the notes from this month's meeting." and when Matthew starts cooking him poutine and wurst casserole nearly every evening fresh instead of leaving servings to be reheated in the fridge for the week. It's a strange flavour combination, but it's their favourite anyway.

There are other, smaller things too. Matt starts answering the phone for both of them, even when Gilbert's home. His music selection starts creeping into Prussia's own collection of German rock; Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. One evening they start dancing to it as they wash the dishes together, spinning and dancing around the kitchen until they're breathless with laughter. One day, Matt teaches him to make maple sugar candy, and Gilbert thinks that the syrup at the corner of his mouth looks awfully lickable. One night they fall asleep under the afghan on the sofa, heads on opposite armrests with Kuma-what's-its-name curled in the middle.

One morning he realises he hasn't brought anyone home since he and Matthew started drinking together.

And he realises that he and Matt don't act like they're dating, they act like a  _fucking married couple already._

The thought terrifies him.

* * *

He calls Francis in a panic, hardly able to get the words out. Luckily Francis-maybe it's because of years of friendship, or maybe it's his intuitive love senses working again-seems to understand just from the word "Matt" and the tone of his voice.

"You love Mathieu, don't you?"

Gilbert is nearly sobbing.

"Love? I don't love anyone. I don't love anyone but myself."

France sighs on the other end of the line.

"Gil, as much as I know you're a narcissistic individual, I know you care about other people. I know you care about Mathieu, otherwise you wouldn't have bought him that Nat King Cole record he wanted so much or tried to cook poutine for him on his birthday. You wouldn't be able to tell him apart from Alfred, either. But if you don't get over yourself and  _tell him,_ you're going to lose him. Mathieu is patient, but he can't sit around in limbo forever-and this silly fear of commitment stems from the fear that he'll leave you. Think on that, will you?"

And his friend hangs up.

It takes Gilbert another half an hour to calm down enough before he calls Matt.

"Can you come over? Right now, I mean?" he blurts out before Matt can even get a salutation in.

"Yeah, sure. Why? Something wrong?"

_Yes,_ Gilbert desperately wants to scream,  _yes, because Francis thinks you might leave me and he always knows things about relationships and he's the closest thing you have to a father-well, besides England, anyway-but I'm sure he's right on this count too and I'm sorry I'm keeping you waiting but-_

"No," is what he says.

"Oh, okay, I'll be over in half an hour or so, then," Matthew says.

* * *

When Matthew's car pulls up to his house, Prussia's hands are sweating and shaking. The evening starts off slow, as it usually does. They flick around channels on the TV for a while, as there isn't hockey on. Drink beer. Nothing out of the ordinary, Prussia tells himself. After he's had enough Molson to dampen his nerves significantly, he goes over to the CD player (call him outdated but there's something about a physical record of music an iPod just can't quite live up to) and pops in a favourite for both of them, "Fly Me to the Moon."

"Please dance with me," he says softly, and extends a hand to Canada, who is still lounging on the couch.

Canada gives him a look, as if to say 'You called me over to dance to Frank Sinatra?' but he gets up anyway. Prussia isn't quite sure why, but some of his old courtesies come back and he's certain Canada has caught onto the ruse. This is not the dancing of friends, it is dancing the way he danced with so many men and women of Maria Theresa's court centuries before, but none looked quite so lovely, he thought. And before he can second guess himself he leans in and kisses Matt.

It is awkward in the way that only first kisses can be. They bump noses because Canada is not expecting it, but he feels him relax into the touch of his mouth and begin to kiss him back. They are dancing a different sort of dance now, one of twined tongues and feather light touches of fingers on hipbones and firmer ones of fingers knotting into hair. It could have been that a thousand years passed before they came up, gulping for air-Gilbert didn't know. All he knew was that he felt half an empire again.

"I want to dance with you until we grow old," he whispers to Matthew.

"But we don't-" Matt starts, and then he seems to realise and his eyes grow wide-

"Exactly," Prussia finishes for him, and leans in to kiss him once more.

 


	15. Puzzle Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vash and Roderich decide to change up their morning routine.

It was one of those afternoons; rainy and quiet, the epitome of early spring. The tulips in their little garden hadn't quite bloomed yet but the snow had long since passed; the fog had lifted from the lake but it was still not warm enough to go outside without a light jacket on; and it was just cool enough to perfectly excuse spending mornings lying in bed rather later than anticipated.

Switzerland always woke first. And by "woke first," he meant "up at the crack of dawn." Austria himself was no layabout. He too favoured rising at an hour that other nations, namely France or Spain or the Italies, might name "ungodly." But they were both happy to doze a little longer on lazy spring mornings.

He pushed himself into an upright position, letting the sheets puddle at his waist. He had neglected to re-don his top after last night's activities, but he had at least put on his pyjama bottoms. He and Roderiech were never never ones for mornings after. The passion of dusk and bare skin seemed forced and insincere in the light of day, and the professions of love seemed gaudy rather than adoring. No, during the day they were friends, companions, and partners; only at night did they become lovers.

However, Vash's logic seemed to be hitting a rather large pothole every time he looked at Austria's bare chest. Contrary to the rest of his siblings and Switzerland himself, Austria always left his clothes strewn about their room, forgotten about as he hastened to the piano or to the bed. Instead of pyjama pants and top, he was stretched out half beneath the covers in a pair of well patched boxers and an unbuttoned dress shirt. The effect of such an eclectic combination of clothes was strangely endearing rather than haphazard; perhaps it was the thriftiness of having patched the faded green fabric so many times, or perhaps it was because the dress shirt he was wearing actually belonged to Vash.

Or maybe it was just the fact that the man he was in love with was lying in their bed half naked.

He wasn't sure quite what possessed him to do so, but he reached out and smoothed the errant lock of Austria's hair back into place. It always sprung back no matter what he did to it, but the orderly affection of the gesture soothed both of them. At his touch, Roderiech began to stir, and Vash mentally kicked himself. The last thing he'd intended to do was wake him. As the other nation's eyes sleepily blinked open, Switzerland tried desperately to persuade him back into dreamland. He'd been up late playing last night; he needed the rest for optimal health and brain function. Lord knew he needed his help in keeping the other nations in line.

"No, Roderiech, go back to sleep-I'll put the coffee on, just come down when you're ready."

Austria lets his lips curl as he sighs.

"You always look most becoming in morning light, Vash," he mumbles. Again, Switzerland isn't quite sure why, but he leans in to kiss him. Early morning kisses are not part of their usual routine either, but it feels right this morning. Maybe it's Austria's "sonata speak."

"Stay in bed," his lover pleads, and that makes Vash chuckle.

"You know I'm not one to sleep in, Roderiech."

At this Austria's eyes flash uncharacteristically wickedly.

"Who said anything about sleeping?" he murmurs in reply, and Vash suddenly finds himself pinned by both wrists to the mattress.

...The morning was now taking not only a turn for the unexpected but also for the better. And somewhat intimidating.

Austria's mouth moves slowly, hesitantly over Vash's features. They press feather light kisses, angel kisses to his jawline and neck, dancing all over his visage before finally settling on his lips. Their press is soft, and rather chaste for having his hands locked against their bed, but Switzerland finds it unusually sweet. Roderiech runs his tongue along the curve of Switzerland's lower lip, and then pushes it inside his mouth. He swirls it, flicks the tip agains the tip of Vash's own, lets his teeth grasp a most tenacious hold on his mouth and nibbles. Despite his bashfulness at their situation, Vash can't help but groan-it's decidedly  _erotic._

Encouraged by this response, Austria turns his mouth to Switzerland's throat, nipping and sucking until the skin there is red and raw. He finds a spot along Vash's collarbone, just above the sternum, that he thinks might be the peak of one of the Alps. Here he bites hard, and Vash screams, and the sound is so pretty he does it three more times. His hands slide from Switzerland's wrists to his hips, gripping them until the skin turns pink; he can feel them twitching beneath his hands, longing to press up against him, into him, but holding back. So he hooks his fingers into the waistband of the pyjama pants and yanks them off, and then trails his lips down Vash's chest until he meets the juncture of pale blond hair and takes him, already half hard, in his mouth. Vash is not groaning or screaming now; now he  _moans,_ moans like a whore, and Austria loves it.

Vash's fingers, willingly or unwillingly, twine themselves into his hair as he sucks, and every time his tongue finds a particularly sensitive area to play with they tighten in their hold. He flicks his tongue over the head and slides it underneath, letting it run over every ridge and vein, and then thrusts his head forward so that Vash is taken in him throat deep. Switzerland rolls his hips and Austria has to stop himself from grinning almost ferally, because Vash is his and he is Vash's and together they are complete. He slides off of him when he feels that Vash is close, and then rolls to the other side of the bed. Vash's look of annoyance abruptly shifts to one of gratitude when he sees that Roderiech has no intention of stopping their morning lovemaking but is merely reaching for the lube.

Vash's breath catches in his throat as Austria lies on his back and slides one and then two slick fingers into himself, stretching and pulling, rough and quick. He adds a third one, and Vash growls almost possessively-Austria would be lying if he said he didn't find that attractive-and grips his hand by the wrist, substituting his own fingers. Switzerland makes quick work of him, stretching and scissoring and twisting the fingers inside them until he finds Roderiech's spot and presses there until he is crying out in pleasure and writhing beneath him, very near as close as Vash himself is.

Switzerland lies back and Austria straddles him. This part will not last long, they are both to close, but they do not care. Austria sinks down on Vash, and Austria whimpers and gasps while Switzerland lets out one of those moans that very nearly sends Roderiech over the edge on its own. Roderiech begins to roll his hips, slowly at first and then faster, with Vash thrusting in time. Vash strokes him as they find their rhythm; he hits Austria's spot three times in a row and Austria finds himself spent. Two more thrusts and Switzerland comes as well, both panting between murmurs of their lover's names.

They roll off one another onto the sheets, sticky with sweat and cum and lube but satisfied. Austria can't help but smirk and Switzerland and whisper conspiratorially,

"One more reason to get up early, hmm?" which actually gets a chuckle out of the other nation. Neither rises to get breakfast but instead fold inward, into each other's arms, and watch the rain trickling on the windowpane. They fit together like puzzle pieces-they may be of contrasting colours, they may be differently sized, and they might have tried to pretend otherwise-but they are puzzle pieces nonetheless, and nothing would keep them apart.

 


	16. Reading Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and China are wondering if their bosses are ever going to let them stop dancing around one another.

America was bored to tears. Formal balls were really not his thing. Sports games, yes. Casinos, yes. Concerts, yes. Bars, yes. Black tie events with dull, old people, itchy suits, and alcohol that didn't get you drunk? Count him out. But his boss had demanded that he attend this party (to "foster strong international relations with our partners in Asia" or some bullshit like that-he knew it was all about good press) and so here he was. He could feel his boss giving him the evil eye from across the room, though, and with a grumble resigned himself to socialising. Downing the remainder of the glass of champagne in his hand-he could sense France's disapproval from a continent away-and tapped a pretty Chinese girl in a red robe on the shoulder.

"Care to dance?" he asked, striving to keep his voice level and pleasant.

The girl spun around, looking both surprised and affronted. Once he could see the girl's face, this reaction made much more sense because the girl in question was China, who generally took offense to being mistaken for a member of the opposite sex. Maybe it was because it happened so frequently.

"Champagne?" Alfred offered sheepishly, grabbing a flute from a nearby server.

China, who had years of practice translating America-speak, accepted.

"You are very kind."

America, who had at least a few years of practice dealing with China-subtext, smiled in relief.

Anyone who said America never apologised clearly wasn't looking hard enough. China had dealt with him for years and had never known him to be truly callous to the feelings of others, except maybe Ivan. And North Korea. And maybe Vietnam, if he were in a particularly bad mood. But on the whole, Alfred was quick to tread on other nation's toes in his accidental, brash way, and equally quick to apologise. He just didn't say it out loud-too much of his English upbringing, Yao thought.

Anyone who said the Asian countries never express their feelings was dumb as a post. America was well used to international policy with both Japan and China, and anyone who thought they weren't emotional creatures had their head up their ass. Sure, they wore courtesy like armor and were painstakingly hospitable towards their guests, but he'd seen them yell at family members enough times to know they weren't ice sculptures. Plus, they were masters of sarcasm. If anyone bothered to read between the lines, they could see Yao was saying "you are forgiven" the same way he was saying "I'm sorry."

It wasn't the kind of dancing he'd originally suggested, but it was a dance of their own, so to speak. Years of delicate foreign policy, large culture gaps, and constant espionage by their insufferable bosses had left them very good at talking to one another without actually talking to one another at all.

Striving to maintain a pleasing, neutral expression not unlike China's own, America turned the conversation to matters of business.

"And how is your economy doing, Yao?" I care about your well being.

"Well, well. I thank you for your strong efforts towards good trade relations." I know I can depend on you.

"Our markets follow similar trends. What's good for the goose is good for the gander." We're not so different, you and I.

"Yes, although my boss has some ideas. I'm not sure about them yet, but I am intrigued to see where they go." I hate my boss. He's an idiot.

"I am interested to hear what mine has to say on the subject as well." I know that feeling all too well, my friend.

"More champagne?" I'm bored.

"Please." Me too.

And the two nations took press photographs and shook hands with officials and smiled. They poured champagne and drank deeply and gave speeches. And they kept exchanging small talk that meant nothing and everything at all to them.

And they were led away at the end of the night, their bosses congratulating them on their grand success.

No, we were not successful. We were not successful because we still cannot speak openly to one another, we were not successful because we are still being watched, we were not successful because we are ending the night apart. We were not successful because the 'trade relations' we want to have are not at all congruent with your plans to keep building and building until war finally strikes and everything burns to the ground, until there are no men left standing but me and him with swords against our throats and guns against our temples, because neither of us can pull the trigger or slash the blade on the other.

But they did not say so. They nodded and went their separate ways, to seedy bars and foot massage parlors, to drown their sorrows in liquor and flesh and other sins, and wondered when they would ever get to stop reading between the lines.


	17. Roses, Tea Leaves, and Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis decides to surprise Arthur by trying something a little exotic.

England knew his day was going to get better from the moment he stepped inside the front door. As he turned to hang up his coat on the rack and slipped out of his extra-sturdy rainboots, France sidled up behind hip and nipped lightly at the nape of his neck.

"Guess who?" he murmured. Without waiting for a reply, he turned his head so he could properly kiss Arthur, and Arthur knew it was going to be one of  _those_  afternoons. The afternoons where nothing would get done until the next morning because they were too busy shagging each other into the mattress. When the lingering kiss broke, England gasped, "Bedroom. Now."

France was all too happy to oblige. Without waiting for another second, he picked up England and promptly carried him straight there. The mood had already been set, rose scented candles burning strong and filling the room with a heady floral aroma. They didn't agree on a lot of scents in both colognes and candles, but the rose was something sensual and sacred to both of them. It was one of those rare compromises where both parties were satisfied. Setting England gently down upon his feet, both nations started grappling with their clothes. England struggled with the belt buckle of his pants, which were already becoming painfully tight, while France simply could not get the buttons of his shirt done at a pace that was satisfying to them both. When all was discarded and puddled on the floor, both countries stood already panting and flushed.

England lunged first, knotting his fingers into Francis's hair as they kissed. It was desperate and passionate and England could feel himself growing hard just at France's well practiced fingers circling over his shoulder blades before coming down to rest on his hips. Francis raked his teeth over Arthur's lower lip and was rewarded with a groan. Arthur, in return, slid his finger inside Francis's mouth and ran the tip of his tongue over his lover's extra sensitive palate. France's whole body shivered, and Arthur could feel the vibrations where their bodies pressed against one another and in the roots of the strands he was holding. Lips still pressed firmly together, they toppled sideways onto the bed, where they finally broke their kiss. Francis latched on to England's shoulder with his teeth, sucking with pursed lips to mark his territory, and Arthur bent his head to use his tongue to circle Francis's nipple. He blew softly on the trail of saliva, feeling France's muscles tighten as goosbumps rose on the flesh there. Smirking, he started to bend his head lower, but to his surprise, Francis reached down with two fingers and propped them under his chin, tilting his head upward.

"As much as I would enjoy that, kitten, tonight I have a surprise for you." France's voice had taken on the huskiness of arousal, and Arthur found himself hardening further at his words. Francis rolled off the bed, leaving England whimpering at the sudden draft, and returned with a few objects in his hands. When he leaned in to kiss England lightly, Arthur could smell another scent underneath the scent of France's usual cologne. It smelled like tea leaves, and that brought a smile to his lips. Really, his lover never failed to see to the details.

"Do you trust me?" Francis asked, and England nodded tremulously. "Good," France replied, and produced a long ribbon of red silk. He ran it down the length of England's body, enjoying the flush that came to his skin at the touch. Arthur obediently stretched his arms overhead, where France circles them with the ribbon once, twice, three times before securing the knot. Here he pauses for a moment, and Arthur nods again. He slides his lips down his lover's body before bringing them to rest on Arthur's length. He licks him from top to bottom, and his lover obediently mewls until Francis takes him in his mouth and begins to suck. He takes him all the way into his throat, bobbing up and down the shaft. He begins to hum, and England's body shudders with the vibrations. Giving his boyfriend one last lick, he reaches for something else lying on the bed and smoothes it over his hands, one by one.

When his hands grip Arthur's inner thighs to spread his legs, his lover nearly explodes from the touch. On one hand, he is wearing a leather glove; on the other, a silk glove. The simultaneous simulation of the two different textiles is a particular fetish of theirs, and France is only too happy to indulge, no matter the cost. His tongue dips lower, tempting his lover, but then withdraws.

Arthur is begging in earnest now. "Please, Francis, please, please-ahhhhhh,  _fuck, fuck fuck fuck,_ France,  _please,"_ and his boyfriend slides a finger inside of him. The fingers work delicately at first, then more aggressively. They split and stretch and scissor, widening Arthur until he's not sure he can hold out any more. Then France slides a third finger inside him and begins pumping in and out, in and out, as his mouth and silk gloved hand return to attending Arthur's cock. More whines and moans from his boyfriend when he withdraws the hand, although his mouth continues its movements. Francis wriggles out of the glove and slides two lubed fingers inside himself. He prepares himself quick and fast, careful not to let his lover notice by doubling the efforts of the fingers inside England. Grappling for a moment, he finally seizes the toy he was looking for.

Taking his fingers out, he at last nudges England's entrance with the blunt tip. Arthur groans again in response, murmuring Francis' name over and over, desperate to finally be fucked. When the toy slides in, he looks puzzled for a moment. They had played with plenty of toys before, but never internal ones. The cool plastic had never seemed as appealing to them as warm skin. But then Francis hits the discreet little button on the base of the toy and watches England's pupils explode as he simultaneously sinks himself onto his lover.

As the toy buzzes against Arthur's sweet spot, massaging him from the inside, Francis rides him from on top. He starts slow but rocks back and forth faster and faster, rough and fast. When Arthur finishes inside of him, it is deep and warm, and a few strokes are all that is needed to finish himself off. With a groan, he rolls off of his boyfriend and begins untying him, removing the plug. He kisses him lightly on the mouth and mumbles,

"Did you like that, lapin?"

He is rewarded with another, deeper kiss. "We should  _certainly_  do that again. Maybe every day this week. Maybe twice a day." _  
_

France chuckles. "Whatever you want, cher." And he leans his head against Arthur's chest and both of them drift into slumber.

 


	18. Meeting the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred introduces Ivan to his family. Arthur and Francis, however, have taken things just a bit too far.

Alfred leaned in and kissed his lover lightly on the cheek.

"Morning, love," he mumbled, slouching deep into his chair and groping around on the table until he secured the mug of coffee he left out every night so it would be ready first thing. Ivan shook his head, failing to comprehend why his lover would rather drink stale, room temperature coffee than wait while he made the pot himself or-heaven forbid-ask Ivan to make one for him. Alfred hated being in debt to anyone, he supposed, even his lover. Besides, he found a sleepy America somewhat charming; when not fully awake, his boyfriend tended to revert to a drowsier version of his father. It was adorable.

Nevertheless, he knew better than to tease his lover about it and instead settled for placing Alfred's preferred breakfast on the table instead: sausage, eggs sunny side up, Texas Toast, and bacon. Russia preferred to think of it as the "Heart Attack Special," but so far the other country seemed to be fairly hale and in good shape, so he supposed he couldn't really complain. Both nations had an agreement that there was to be morning conversation until after breakfast was finished. Common courtesy.

Alfred shifted in his seat. Ivan switched the hand that was propping his head up from right to left. America turned his cup a full rotation counterclockwise. Russia doodled designs in the leftover jam on his plate with a knife. Both nations took a deep breath and then blurted out:

"I want to go to dinner at your family's house."

"I would very much like to meet your family."

A long pause. Then the replies:

"What."

"You are not serious, da?"

Alfred rolled his shoulders and shook out the crick in his neck.

"Okay," he said, striving to keep the tone of his voice even. "We both want the same thing. I want to visit your family because I feel like we've gotten to that point in our relationship. I feel like we're serious enough. I'm guessing you want the same thing?" Here he looked at Ivan for confirmation.

Ivan nodded, and Alfred continued.

"Then either neither of us gets our way, or we both do. Why don't you want me to meet your family?"

Russia gave him a long look. "You have seen them at world meetings, haven't you?"

America inclined his head in return. "Point taken. Still, my family's twice as humiliating!"

"And mine is terrifying."

"Then I guess we just have to suck it up."

"Da."

"Right."

Ivan pauses, then asks, "Do you want to call your family first?"

"Might as well get it over with. 'Sides, no one's likely to die at mine, are they?"

Ivan hopes his chuckle is convincing enough to dissuade Amerika from the notion that that might be a reality as his lover heads to the living room to make the call.

* * *

The phone rings once, twice, and then clicks as one of his parents (or at least the closest thing he has to parents) picks up.

"Allo? Bonnefoy-Kirkland résidence, why are you calling at this ungodly hour?"

"Francis? It's Alfred!"

"Alfred! You should have said so! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, aha, you see-"

"What have you done? Are you and your boss having another debate you need settled? If so, I should probably put Arthur on the line-" _  
_

"No! No, no, that's really okay. It's something of the...relationship nature."

"In that case, I shall most definitely  _not_  put Arthur on the line. I'm very glad you came to me. What is the problem, cher?"

Here Alfred's thoughts are interrupted by the static filled sound of water running coming from the other end of the wire. Shaking his head like a dog to get them back in order, he presses onwards.

"You see, Ivan and I seem to be getting pretty serious. And we decided it was time to introduce each other to our families."

Silence. For a moment Alfred almost panicked. What if he had been wrong? What if his family didn't approve of his relationship with Ivan? What if they thought he was moving too fast? What if Arthur saw this as another betrayal?

"Alfred, that is wonderful news! I am so happy we will finally be getting the chance to see you as a couple! Does that mean there's something  _big_  on the horizon?"

A long exhale of relief. "No, Francis. We're not getting married. But we are getting serious, and we decided this was the best way to show that to one another." He hoped he would be forgiven for the white lie.

"So what time shall we expect you?"

"Tomorrow? At six-ish?"

"No! Tomorrow?"

"Well, it's just a small family gathering, right? You've cooked for all of us before, it's only one extra person."

"Non! Arthur and I wanted the introduction of your special someone to be a magnificent event! The  _whole_  family has to be there!"

Alfred wondered when he had given his stomach leave to go visit the South Pole. "Promise me you won't let Dad or his siblings handle the cooking?"

"I would never dream of it, mon puce. Anyway, if you're planning on coming tomorrow, I've got an awful lot to do, so I've got to run. Adieu!"

Before he could pass on any more warnings to Francis, the dial tone had already sounded and he was left feeling like he'd just signed his execution warrant.

* * *

"You look fine," Alfred reassured Ivan as he watched the other nation fiddle with his tie. "It's just my family. Relax."

"Relax. Right. I will be doing more of the relaxing."

America shook his head. The situation was hopeless and he should cut his losses now. But he never did know when that was a wise move, and so instead leaned in to kiss Ivan right as the door opened. Cursing internally, he turned to the intruder. Matthew greeted him only with lifted eyebrows and a smirk before holding the door open wider to invite them inside. As they crossed the threshold, Canada leaned in to whisper to his brother, "I hope you know what you got yourself into."

"Oh, Lord, don't even remind me. I'd been trying to block it from my memory," he groaned.

Matthew's smirk widened. "No, seriously, I don't think you  _did_  understand what you got yourself into. When Francis and Arthur say the whole family, they mean the  _whole_  family."

America let the words sink in for a moment before his eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Oh no. Oh  _fuck_  no, no they didn't, tell me you're shitting me, Mattie, tell me you're-oh, _fuck._ "  _  
_

Here Ivan, who had been hanging up his outer gear on the coat rack, turned to his boyfriend.

"Russia, forget whatever I said about relaxing. Stupid limey bastard and French fucking frog-"

"Nice alliteration," Matthew cut in.

"-invited everyone."

"Da. That is what is meant by 'family dinner.' Have I misunderstood?"

"No, no, you haven't, Ivan. It's just that my parents kind of got...carried away."

At the blank look he received, Alfred just sighed and ushered Ivan towards the living room, Canada trailing in their wake. Russia froze and then debated if it was too late to run. The living room was overflowing with people. Far, far too many people. England and France sat in the middle of the room on a little plush loveseat, like the center of a brightly coloured flower. Ivan was no stranger to flowers, and he remembered that the bright ones were usually poisonous. To the left of England sat a cluster of people who all possessed the same green eyes, watching him with the same lazy viciousness as a cat. The man perched on the armrest of the loveseat was blonde, like Arthur, but the three on the floor all had hair in varying shades of red. Judging by their similar looks, he deduced that these must be the rest of the United Kingdom (and the free Republic of Ireland). Just behind them were a man in his twenties with a bandage across his nose and hair that wouldn't lie flat curled up in a lime green armchair, and a waifish person of indeterminate gender with a whorl of blonde hair and a sailor cap in the chair opposite. And Matthew had quietly taken his place at the feet of his parents, contributing to the enormous pressure of the feeling of being stared at by everyone in the room.

Alfred realised that (quite possibly for the first time in his life) his boyfriend was afraid. He didn't blame him; this wasn't exactly an easy introduction to make. Looking to diffuse the tension, he cleared his throat.

"Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Ivan. Russia. And Ivan, this is...well, this is, um, my family."

A moment's silence. Then Mattie (thank you, brother!) stood and approached Ivan, taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

"Canada. Matthew. Alfred's brother." Under normal circumstances, Russia would have pointed out that not only had they already met, they saw each other nearly every World Meeting, but he was too busy recovering his jellyfied insides to reply. Instead, he just returned the handshake, and waited to see what the others would do. Following Matthew's example, the other countries in the room stood and introduced themselves to him.

Arthur's blonde sibling introduced himself as "David, Wales" and the auburn one was "James, Scotland." The redheaded twins were Seamus and Saoirse, and he didn't bother asking which was which Ireland. The little sailor was New Zealand, the one with the permanently broken nose and sunburnt skin Australia. It did nothing to ease his nerves.

"Shall we proceed into the kitchen, then?" Arthur asked with a tilt of his head.

Ivan was prevented from having to answer that question by a loud bang coming from the kitchen, followed by violent cursing in what sounded like French.

"Oh,  _shit,"_ Matthew swore, which was incredibly surprising. Canada usually wasn't the type for violent outbursts of any kind. Russia watched in bemusement as the smaller boy leapt to his feet and sprinted to the door that led to the kitchen. Although the conversation was muffled by the door, the argument could still be heard fairly clearly.

" _Lien!_ I thought I told you to keep Lei Su and his firecrackers  _out_ of the kitchen!"

"I'm sorry, but do I see you in here trying to control his sorry ass? No? Then don't you tell me how to deal with his stupid pyromancy!"

"I don't have pyromania!"

Here Alfred cut in with a rather dangerous glint in his eye.

"I'm sorry, Francis, I thought you were supposed to be cooking tonight."

"Well, I started everything off, I just had them finish off a few details while I called a family meeting right before you got here-"

"Maybe if you actually remembered who I was, you-"

"Guys I think the soufflé is a little burnt-"

"My soufflé!"

"Alfred, sweetheart?"

"Ivan? What is it? Do you want to go home?" His tone was decidedly hopeful, but the glare Arthur was giving him would frighten anyone into staying.

"No, no, Fredka, I was just wondering who's in the kitchen."

"Oh. The rest of the family." Oh, good. Well, that cleared everything up.

"Fredka, forgive me, but who else is part of your family?"

"Hong Kong, Seychelles, Vietnam. More like the cousins of the family, but Arthur and Francis wanted this to be a really big thing." He raked his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish.

They were saved by the reappearance of Matthew, who had a couple holes in his shirt and some very singed arm hair, but otherwise looked unhurt.

"Dinner is served," he announced, and proceeded to usher them out of the living room and into the dining room. Russia wasn't sure how it happened, but he would bet the Baltics that England had something to do with it. He had been separated from Alfred and somehow ended up sitting between Australia and Scotland. The trio of chefs, plus Francis, emerged from the kitchen bearing huge ceramic and silver platters and casserole dishes, plus enough food to feed an army. They began to uncover the dishes one by one, and he had to admit it looked delicious-save for one dish that looked oddly out of place. Evidently he wasn't the only one who thought so, because France blanched at the sight of it and hissed across the table, " _Arthur, cherie, I told you no mushy peas!_ _"_ England raised his hands in protest of his innocence. Upon closer inspection, the green...purée was a kind way to put it had bits of translucent something-or-other floating in it.

Francis plopped the spoon back into the bowl and turned his glare on David, who at least had the decency to look sheepish. Ivan, meanwhile, was trying to be tactful and had been staring at the opposite wall, not acknowledging this family squabble. He was started out of this state by a tug at his sleeve, turning to the mischievous looking redhead beside him.

"How do you feel about alcohol?" the man asked him.

"I like you," Ivan said firmly. At last a member of the family with sense. He had already been reaching for his flask of vodka when he caught sight of Alfred's face halfway down the table, glowing like the sunset and refusing to make eye contact with him. And his Fredka had wanted the evening to go well so badly, too. He slides the flask back into his pocket. The Scotsman notices and smirks.

"What's the matter? Scared I can outdrink you?"

The glare Ivan sends him is colder than Siberia.

"No. I just don't want to cause my Fredka any more embarrassment."

"And the name Fredka doesn't? Sound's like a girl's name."

Russia decides not to dignify that with a response. At least, he wasn't going to until he feels  _something_  warm and rough rubbing up against his wrist, whereupon he lets out a guttural growl, turning to his other side. Australia is sitting there, completely nonchalant, with a snake wrapped around his wrist. The tongue of the snake flicks out again, this time catching Russia's pinky finger. Kyle does not appear to notice the purple aura radiating from his neighbour. What he  _does_ notice-indeed what everyone else notices-is the enormous Catherine Wheel that soars into the room from the kitchen door, igniting the tablecloth for all of five seconds before half the occupants of the table whip out a fire extinguisher and smother not only the flames, but most of the food with white foam. (Habit of living with England's cooking, most of the nations mumble in excuse.) Lei doesn't even have the decency to look upset at the scorch mark and ruined dinner, instead letting out a huge cheer at the spectacular display.

"Dude, that was  _awesome!"_ England looks physically pained at the butchery of his language.

Russia decides that this would be a good time to excuse himself to the bathroom, mumbles his apologies, and very nearly breaks into a run. He even half slams the door shut behind him. There is more yelling coming from the dining room, but he can't make out specific words. He doesn't bother to listen clearly. It is so painfully clear to him that he will never fit in to this family, that he will never belong here. He loves Alfred, he really does, but if his presence makes his lover so uncomfortable and family gatherings so painful, he's willing to let go. What he really needs right now, he realises, is his boyfriend.

He sends Alfred a quick text:  _Fredka? Could you come to the bathroom? I think I broke your soap dispenser._

_To Be Continued..._


	19. Family Dinner Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the disastrous dinner party of 2012.

_Previously On Dinner with Family: Fredka, could you come to the bathroom? I think I broke your soap dispenser._

Alfred had been so busy glaring across the table at Hong Kong that he hadn't even noticed Russia's disappearance. Even England, who had put up with the antics of his children for years, looked physically pained. Narrowing his eyes, he made absolutely certain that the younger Asian boy was looking at him when he demanded,

"What,  _exactly,_  were you thinking?"

As further indication that Hong Kong had absolutely no sense of preservation (France swore up and down the reason why Matthew was so much better behaved than his brother was because of his French influence-all the English colonies had  _such_  tempers), his grin grew wider.

"Well, I mean, fireworks are awesome enough on their own. But getting to watch a superpower piss himself over them? Icing on the cake."

Canada wondered if his foster-brother knew he was pissing off another superpower now.

"What exactly is your problem with Russia, Leon?"

"Okay, first of all, you know I don't go by that name any more. Sorry, ge-ge's orders. Secondly, have you seen the guy? He's psychotic, creepy, bizarrely childish..."

"And my boyfriend."

"Well,  _yeah_ , but don't ask me why. No one else in the room gets it either, trust me, I'm just the only one with enough balls to say it."

Russia might be the physically cold nation out of the couple, but every country in the room would have sworn up and down that the temperature dropped twenty degrees under the power of Alfred's stare.

"You disapprove of my relationship." Flat. Calm. Factual. Matthew winced, and France tried to cut in to prevent the carnage that surely was to follow.

"Cher, it is not exactly that we disapprove. We are just...concerned for your well being. You are like a son to me and Arthur, and we would do the same for any of our children." Francis countered, and here he paused to look around the table.

"We know you and Ivan are together-we just wanted to make sure that you were planning on it being long term." Arthur continued.

"So Mattie got the same treatment when he told you he was going out with Prussia?"

Hesitation. "Well, not exactly the same, cher. Gilbert is one of my oldest friends."

"Yeah, and last time I checked, Canada and Prussia didn't threaten to destroy the whole fucking world with nuclear weaponry," Hong Kong mumbled.

"Leon, if you know what is good for your existence,  _shut your mouth,"_ Seychelles hissed.

Mercifully for Leon (Lei Su! he insisted) Alfred didn't seem to have overheard. He had bigger fish to fry. Namely, his parents.

"You set me up. No, scratch that, you set  _him_  up. England's mushy peas, Australia's snake, Lei Su's serious fire problem-you wanted to get a rise out of him. Wanted to make him leave. Well, congratu-fucking-lations, it worked. You scared him off and now-" here his phone helpfully buzzed in his pocket-"now I have to go and fix your soap dispenser. Which I'm pretty sure you don't even have, so reading between the lines here, now I have to go and comfort my boyfriend."

And he stalked out of the room.

"I'll go talk to him," England, Canada, and Seychelles sighed simultaneously.

Blank stares.

"You have got to be pulling my leg."

"You hosers want to comfort him after you were the ones to piss him off?"

"Please, like you two have a sensitive bone in your body."

It was South who ended the bickering. "I think you should leave them alone. Lord knows you've made a right mess of things as they are."

Once more, the nations protested. "Erie, I  _raised_  him. I know how to deal with his strops and tantrums-" "I'm his brother, I know how he gets, and he's not wrong, he has a right to be upset-" "What's  _wrong_  with this  _family_  is that no one actually listens to one another and then everyone gets pissed about it-"

"No, South is right." The assembled countries looked at Vietnam with some surprise, and she lifted her hands in a gesture of self defense. "I say this as America's cousin, not as his enemy. Yes, those two have had their battles, and God knows we were dragged into it enough when it happened, but I know Alfred. And he was never so paranoid and upset as when he was fighting Russia, and never so happy as when he's with Ivan. Let them talk to one another, because you are most definitely not 'helping'."

"Thank you, ma petite puce. If you will excuse me, dear Angleterre and I must have a talk. May we leave and trust that the room will not erupt into chaos?"

France did not wait for an answer before taking Arthur by the elbow and hoisting him from the chair, dragging him back towards the living room.

"Sit," he barked at his lover and co-parent. England sat.

"I'm sure Austria and Hungary are somewhere laughing their asses off right now. Somehow, they managed to raise a child who doesn't have so many relationship problems!"

"There's nothing wrong with our parenting! We raised a superpower!"

"Yes! A superpower who found it so hard to express his emotions in a normal healthy way-I blame you and your sensible English prudishness-that he started a war that lasted fifty years and promised nuclear destruction with the person he was in love with!"

Matthew, listening in the next room over, interjected with "Pot. Kettle. Black," under his breath.

"Meanwhile, Italy and Germany are off making fucking flower wreaths and starting wedding plans!" France continued, having not heard his other son.

"Oh, please, like that couple didn't have their fair share of problems! It took five fucking proposals before they finally got engaged! Two of them  _Italy_ instigated!"  _  
_

"Last time I checked with Gilbert, no one brought a _poisonous snake_ or  _fireworks_  to the dinner table the last time they had a family gathering!" (Francis did avoid mentioning that knives had been thrown at some point, but figured that since Germany was the only one there who could aim for shit and was also the least likely to lose his temper, no one had been in any serious danger.)

"Fucking hell, Francis, what do you want me to do? I can't control Alfred anymore than you can, or his brother can, or even his bloody boyfriend can-"

"Cher, if you'd been listening to a word I'd said for the past three days, I don't want you to control him! I wanted them to make progress in their relationship, because Alfred finally seems happy, and I was happy for him! And you screwed it up!"

"You went along with my plan when I suggested it!"

"Well clearly, we should have spelled out exactly what we meant by "family dinner" and "keep an eye on them!" Yes, I was all for having your siblings over. Yes, I thought it was a fun idea to have all the colonies here, not just Mathieu. Lord knows we don't spend enough time together as a family. Yes, I was even up for your stupid little intimidation game, your 'Eight Rules for Dating My Superpower of a Son Who is Too Headstrong to Listen to Me Anyway.' Fine. But to humiliate your son's boyfriend in front of America's entire extended family, and then to claim it was okay for you to do so was out of line, and you know it, Arthur. Otherwise you wouldn't be in here talking to me."

"Francis, all I wanted was to keep a handle on their relationship. If Russia can't handle the family on a good evening, he certainly couldn't handle Alfred when he's in one of his fits. It's a father's job to make sure that anyone in a relationship with that aforementioned son is the right candidate for the position! Like Japan, for instance!"

"Angleterre, Gilbert is a dear friend of mine, but we both know he's horribly irresponsible. However, we gave him a chance with Mathieu, and he's actually mellowed. We need to trust Alfred and do the same thing for him and Ivan." Arthur looked so defeated in that instant that Francis went and put his arms around him. That pitiful look reminded him of that dreadful moment on the battlefield between Arthur and Alfred-ah. So that was it.

"Cher, there are other people in the world that care about Alfred." England's head snapped up, eyes wide, and France chuckled. "I know, I find it hard to believe too. He's stubborn, and a terrible cook, and certainly one of the loudest people I've ever met-but that doesn't mean he's any less courageous, loyal, or generous. Alfred is a good man, and because of that, he is a good friend, a good brother, and a good boyfriend. I love Alfred, and Canada loves him, and Ivan clearly loves him or he wouldn't have had the courage to come here tonight. Letting him be in a relationship doesn't mean you love Alfred any less, nor does it mean you've failed as a father. If anything, it means you've succeeded as one."

Here Arthur went very red and promptly ducked his head away from France's eyes. With a sigh, he stood with as much of his dignity as he had still intact and started towards the dining room again.

"Come on, frog, I suppose I have to go fix the mess I've made of things." And with a smile, Francis followed him out.

* * *

America knocked on the bathroom door.

"Ivan? Ivan? Are you in this bathroom?"  _Please, please let it be this bathroom_ , he thought desperately.  _I've tried four already and no sign of Russia or a broken soap dispenser!_ To his relief, Ivan answered.

"Da, Fredka. Will you come in?"

"Of course!" America blurted. "I wanna see you!"

The tumblers of the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing a very sorry looking nation indeed.

"Fredka? I am sorry to have been a source of shame for you. I did not know your family disapproved of our relations, particularly your father."

America blinked. "So I was correct in having assumed that there was no actual broken soap dispenser?"

"Hm? Oh. Da. I checked all the bathrooms to see if there was a soap dispenser I could actually break so I wouldn't have to lie to you, but all your parents have are these fancy rose-scented soap cakes."

"I blame France," America muttered. "Anyway, the point isn't the soap dispenser, or lack thereof. The point is why you felt you needed to hide out in the bathroom."

"Because I embarrassed you."

America blinked again. And then burst out laughing. A flicker of irritation passed across Russia's face. He knew his lover wasn't the most tactful of nations at the best of times, and that dinner had been horribly mortifying, but the least Alfred could do was let him down gracefully.

In between gasps of air, Alfred managed to get out, "Me? Embarrassed of you? Dude, you are like the only person in this house I'm  _not_  mad at right now. I was awkward because of _my_  family, not you!"

Now it was Ivan's turn to be surprised. "You...are not mad at me?"

America shook his head.

"You do not want to break up with me?"

Another shake of the head.

He really never would understand Alfred's emotions. His confusion seemed to shake Alfred out of the last few chuckles of laughter, and he turned to Ivan with a more serious expression on his face.

"Listen, hell knows I don't say it enough because ew, human emotions, but I love you. I was kind of given my family, love 'em or hate 'em, but I chose you. I was really worried when you left dinner, because the Russia I know doesn't like having people walking all over him. In fact, he doesn't allow it at all, and he fought me for five decades about it. Where's that Ivan, hm?"

"He's still here," Ivan mumbled.

"What's that? I can't hear you..."

"He's still here," Ivan replied, louder this time, and Alfred's megawatt grin returned.

"Good. Because  _that's_  the Ivan I fell in love with. And it's not just every damsel in distress that gets chosen by the hero!"

Ivan opened his mouth to tell his lover that firstly, he was a man and therefore not a damsel, and secondly he was definitely mixing his metaphors-or was it allegories? English was such a confusing language-but thought better of it at the sight of his boyfriend beaming again. That was the Alfred  _he_  had fallen in love with. And so they returned to the dining room.

Upon reentry, several of the rather bashful looking nations half rose out of their chairs to welcome them back, but a sheepish looking England waved them back into their seats. This did not seem to reassure any countries present except for France-Canada in particular looked worried, and both America and Russia reserved. Arthur launched into his speech anyway.

"As much as it pains me to say it-" here he shot a quick glance across the room at Francis, who nodded  _Go on,_ \- "I, I was wrong. Just because you've fought before doesn't mean you would make a bad couple. Francis and I are living proof of that, I think. I know you're not my colony anymore, but I worry about you because I raised you. I don't want to see you get hurt, and maybe I see monsters in every shadow and every corner because this is new for you, and it's hard for me to watch. I know I can't keep you safe forever, and in my...zealous parenting, I ended up hurting someone who cared for you. And I am sorry." He offered his hand out to America and promptly blushed when the other nation put his arms around him. He squeezed back before pulling away. Both were rather red in the face-France muttered "Oh, they definitely get their 'ew, human emotions' from each other" to Canada-and Russia hurriedly shook Arthur's hand to alleviate the tension of the moment.

Scotland, ever the practical one, cut in with "Are we ever going to get anything to eat around here?"

England and Wales both started to stand but were shouted down by a chorus of resounding "No!"s.

"Papa and I could make pancakes, and crepes," Matthew offered.

"I think I saw some noodles in a cupboard earlier," Lei Su chimed in.

"Vegemite?" was Australia's suggestion, earning him a smack upside the head from New Zealand.

The meal they ended up sitting down to could not be called five star by anyone's standard, and several of the more culinarily inclined nations looked a little hesitant to put it on the table. Dan dan mien was definitely not meant to be made with spaghetti noodles, leeks had to replace bok choy in the stir fry, and the lotus and sesame seed filling probably didn't go with crepes. But, invented as it was, the food tasted quite good if not exactly up to par, and the dinner managed to pass fairly uneventfully. Although the siblings of the British Isles-Northwestern Atlantic Archipelago! South interjected-had little to contribute to the meal but plenty to contribute to the drinks and card games that occurred afterwards. The twins swore up and down they were not cheating, but they left with twice the money the rest of them had put together. Each. Somehow even the supposed luck of the Irish seemed like an implausible explanation.

It was the early hours of the morning before America and Russia stumbled out into the street to hail a cab, both smiling and warm.

"I'm glad dinner ended well, at least," America said lightly as he slipped his hand into Ivan's. "Although I don't think any dinner party could have gone any worse than the beginning of that one," he added as they clambered inside the black van.

"Good," Ivan replied with a smile. "Then dinner with my family should be a piece of cake, da?"

He wished he'd had a camera to capture the look of horror on his poor dear Fredka's face.


	20. Umbrellas at the Bus Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is stuck waiting at the bus stop with a particularly irritating stranger.

Arthur stood at the bus stop with growing impatience. The bus should have been here twelve minutes ago; what in the world could possibly be holding it up? Additionally, the man he had the misfortune to be waiting for the bus with had the infuriating habit of whistling. So far he’d made his way through “The Baker’s Wife Has Plenty of Money,” “Alouette,” and no fewer than fourteen renditions of “Frère Jacques.” After he had launched into what promised to be the fifteenth, Arthur snapped.

“Do you know _anything_ else?” he demanded.

The man looked mildly surprised, but certainly not offended. Perhaps a little disappointed, but not angry.

“I am sorry to have offended you, _cher._ Would you I prefer I choose another _chante?_ ”

“Of course you’re French,” Arthur muttered in reply, though his tone was no longer quite so venomous. “And speak English, please, I can’t understand your language worth two shits.” 

To his surprise, the man actually laughed outright.

“Forgive me, but you have a way with words when you are angry,” the man said with a wink. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned them to rest studiously on his wristwatch, hoping the man would get the hint. He did not.

“I hope you don’t mind, but what time is it?”

“Nearly quarter to six.”

“Ah-I am afraid, I do not-”

“About 17:45.”

“Ah. _Merci._ So the bus is late?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

“I apologise. I am not familiar with your bus schedules.”

“Not from around here?”

“I thought that would be obvious,” the man said with a little chuckle. Arthur felt his face turn bright red, and he turned away from the man with no response to give. A brief flash of concern showed in the man’s eyes (beautiful brilliant blue), but his voice was still laced with humour. 

“Forgive me, _rosbif._ I meant no insult.”

“What does that mean?”

“I meant that I-”

“No, no, you idiot. The word you used. Rosebeef.”

“I believe you English people would call it ‘roast beef,’ actually. Your face was as red as one when I answered your question.”

“I-I do not look like a piece of meat!” Arthur spluttered. “And a good piece of roast beef shouldn’t be red anyways. If you were in any way intelligent, you’d know that.” 

The man held his hands up in surrender and turned his face up towards the sky, watching the dark heavy clouds. 

“Looks like rain, doesn’t it?”

“It usually does, here.”

“Do-”

“Can you not take a hint?”

“Well-”

“I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to have a conversation, I don’t want to watch the clouds, I don’t want to even have to take the bus with you at this point!” 

“I-” The man’s words were promptly cut off by a huge clap of thunder, and suddenly sheets of rain were falling from the sky. Cursing, Arthur yanked the umbrella off of his wrist (if the bus had just _been here_ on time, he wouldn’t be in this rain with an unpleasant Frenchman) and forced it open. The other man, however, just stood there with a sad little half smile and let himself slowly be drenched by rain. Arthur stared at him in disbelief for a moment-that suit certainly wasn’t cheap looking. 

“Are you mad?”

“Hm?”

“Do you just not have an umbrella?”

The man only gave a small shrug, and Arthur gritted his teeth. This man was _infuriating._

“Oh, here,” he said, and stormed over to stand beside him, then promptly hoisted his umbrella over the man’s head. 

“You’re incredibly irritating, but I’m not going to let you catch bronchitis just because you were stupid enough to leave the house without an umbrella in England.”

“Thank you, _sourclis.”_

“I have a vague notion that I’m being insulted again.”

“You haven’t given me your name.”

“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”

“Francis Bonnefoy.”

“Have you lived here for a long time?”

“England? All my life. London? Since university. Six years. What are you doing here anyway?”

“I lived in Paris, before. I came here to recover.”

“From?”

“From a love I lost.”

“Oh.” Now Arthur actually felt a little guilty for being such a jerk earlier. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She and I had many happy years together.” 

“She?” Arthur blurted out without thinking, then clapped a hand over his mouth, appalled at how rude he’d just come across. Luckily for him, Francis didn’t seem upset. Was the man offended by anything? 

“Don’t apologise, my little English friend. The French-and myself in particular-think that to tie oneself to one gender is rather silly and limiting.”

“Oh. I see.” He did not see at all, but he wouldn’t have admitted to not knowing something that Francis did if you paid him.

“But Jeanne was in the Peace Corps. She was always happiest helping people, helping them make better lives for themselves. But when she was in the Congo, she got very sick. They tried to fly her back to Paris for treatment, but…”

Arthur just stared, for once in his life lost for words.

“Here,” Francis said, and pulled a picture out of his wallet. The woman in it was quite beautiful, with short brown hair and freckled cheeks, crouching beside a newly built water pump. 

“She’s lovely,” he remarked, turning the photo over in his hands before giving it back.

“ _Oui,_ she was the most beautiful, kind, loving woman I have ever known. She had the most magnificent green eyes-not unlike yours, _cher._ ” 

Arthur found himself blushing at the statement. They were interrupted by the arrival of the bus, the screech of tires sending a wave of water over the sidewalk, and both of them boarded, shaking the water off of the umbrella and themselves as they went. The bus, mercifully, was uncrowded, and they found seats without difficulty as the bus began rumbling towards the centre of London. 

“I know what it’s like to lose someone,” Arthur mumbled, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the window. 

“ _Quoi?_ ”

“Maybe not quite in that way-but I know what it’s like to lose someone,” Arthur repeated. “When I was younger, my family moved around a lot because of my dad’s job. Scotland, Ireland, Wales. My siblings didn’t like it much. They were always being uprooted from their schools, always having to make new friends, losing touch with everyone they’d known the year before. Then my parents decided that they didn’t want me to have that kind of childhood, and that they were going to move to England permanently to raise me.” 

He took a deep breath before going on. “Of course, I didn’t have anything to do with that decision-but envy rarely has reason, does it? They despised me for never having to be the new kid, despised me because when I started school-even after years of living there-they were still the outsiders and I had friends by the end of the first week. I was our parent’s favourite, and they would never measure up.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad had I not been such a shitty brother, I think. A few of them tried to connect with me, once or twice, and I pushed them away. Somewhere along the line we unofficially decided that we were all better off pretending that the other’s didn’t exist. My sister, though, was never one to forgive an insult or a grudge, and when I was in middle school and she was in high school it all came spewing back up. We fought, badly, and she left the house that day when our parents took my side. I made up with my brothers, eventually, and I know she sometimes emails them, but she’s never once spoken to me or my parents since then. They-the rest of them-all moved back to the countries they were first from, and we’ve never really tried to make up properly.”

He gave a little hollow laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m penning my life story to you on the bus.”

“Because life never takes something away without giving something back.”

“Sorry, what now?”

“I thought came here to London because I just wanted to run away from Jeanne and all that reminded me of her. But I think our paths were destined to cross. To let one broken soul heal another.” 

“You believe in that?”

“ _Oui,_ I do. I think we have both lost our families, and I think that we were given each other to help rebuild them.” 

Arthur gave him a tentative smile and shyly offered his hand to Francis. 

“This is my stop here. I’d love it if you would come in for a cup of tea.”

“I would love to.”

 

Arthur spent a great deal of time on the phone over the next few months. He didn’t ever recall asking Francis to move in with him. He just came for tea and never left, and Arthur’s apartment began filling up with stuff. Artwork and photographs to hang on the walls, well-tailored suits to fill the closet, and a phone that never seemed to stop ringing. At first, it was just people calling Francis to offer their condolences, but other numbers were quick to join the list. The Italian brothers that ran the _trattoria_ where they ate out once a week. The posh Austrian musician that offered to play at Francis’s gallery opening. The adoption agency that blessed them with two new members of their family-sons, Alfred and Matthew. Francis’s friends, Antonio and Gilbert. Friends of Arthur’s own, especially Lukas, who shared a passion for literature, fantasy, and alchemy. 

And one by one, Arthur’s brothers.

David was the first to start answering his phone calls, endless voicemails about reconnecting. At first, they didn’t have much to discuss besides the weather, their kids, how nice everyone looked in last year’s Christmas card. But he started asking David about his new book, and David started asking him about coming up on the weekends, and somehow they almost seemed like normal siblings. James and Seamus followed, more reluctantly, but followed David’s lead. He brought them and their families over for dinner. He introduced them to Francis, to Alfred and Matthew. (James had taken a particular liking to Alfred-they had the same love of wanton destruction and cards.)

It took him longer to even dial Siobbhan’s number. To his surprise, she answered on the first ring. 

“Hello?”

For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he should hang up the phone. Francis gave him a small smile and a thumbs up, Matthew watching curiously as Alfred banged on the piano keys and called it “music.” 

“Siobbhan? It’s Arthur. I-I’m sorry. I know we have a lot to catch up on….”

_Yes,_ he thought. _Yes, Francis was given to me to give my family back. Francis was given to me to help me heal. Francis was given to me to love me-and my God, I love him. I love him more than words can say._

 


End file.
